Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) Page 14

  Me: Be nice.

  Trent: That WAS nice. See you Friday?

  Me: We’ll see. Rules.

  Trent: I’ll behave ;)

  I click my tongue and wrinkle my nose.

  Me: Not those rules, you perv. CU rules.

  “Who you texting?” Mollie asks, pulling out of the station lot.

  “Trent,” I reply nonchalantly.

  Mollie immediately pulls the car to the shoulder of the road, puts it in park, and turns on the hazard lights. “Explain.”

  So, I do my best. I don’t have much to say, other than the story of Brock, which takes a few minutes to tell in its entirety.

  “Isn’t it weird he’d talk to his cousin about it, but never text or Facebook me or anything?” I ask once we’re back on the road.

  Mollie shrugs, looking quite contemplative. “He still has a giant boner for you,” she finally says.

  “Mollie!” I smack her shoulder, certain my ears will be bleeding before the week is out.

  “Calm yourself,” she demands. “This is how we talk. Bring back your accent and crass language, sister. We only have a few days before I send you back into the seventh circle.”

  “Of what?”

  She laughs. “Hell.”

  I roll my eyes and grin. “Stop.”

  “Come on,” she says. “Just say it, just once.”

  “What? Say what?”

  “You know,” she instigates. “You know. Just once. Come on, it’ll feel good.”

  Shaking my head, I look out the window and consider it.

  “Come on,” Mollie whispers.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes tight and scream as loud and long as I can. “Fuuuuuuuuuck!”

  “Better?” Mollie asks as I lean back against the seat.

  I let out a loud laugh and lean across the car to kiss the side of her head. “Much.”

  After lounging around Starbucks for an hour, Mollie deposits me at my house and says she’ll call me in a few hours, claiming she needs more sleep after a killer exam week. Once I spot my stepsister’s car in the driveway, I’m too excited to even consider sleep.

  “Hellooo!” I call, creeping through the side door of the kitchen. Dan and Mom are at the oversized range, cooking what smells like Spanish omelets. My favorite.

  “There she is!” Mom bellows melodramatically, handing her spatula to Dan and moving toward me with open arms.

  “Hey Mom,” I half-whisper as we embrace in a hard, tight hug. “Thanks for having Mollie pick me up.”

  She chuckles. “She told us she was. I don’t think we were given much option. Yale’s done her assertiveness some good,” Mom says of my best friend, who is always spunky but sometimes less outspoken than I am.

  “How was the ride?” Dan asks, expertly flipping an omelet before sliding it onto a glass plate and placing it on the breakfast bar.

  I wave my hand. “Drunk Boston fan threw up everywhere, but I slept most of the way.”

  Mom and Dan shake their heads and go back to their task of breakfast-making together.

  Walking to the breakfast bar, I take a deep breath, appreciating the smells of home before answering. The house is expansive, average by the neighbor’s standards, but I’ve been places and know how fortunate I am to have far more square footage than I could ever possibly need. I mean, seriously, it was just the three of us most of the time in this house, since Jenny spent a majority of the time with her mom, and we have. Of course three of them are used as active bedrooms, including one guest/Jenny room, and the other two have been converted into offices. Dan and Mom each having their own workspaces in which to save the world.

  “I see Jenny’s car. Can I assume she’s still sleeping?”

  “You could assume that,” Jenny’s voice trails down the stairs, “but you know what they say about assumptions.”

  Bleary eyed and bed-headed, Jenny rounds the corner of the main staircase and enters the kitchen, her boyfriend Paul closely behind her.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here this early!” I grab her into the tightest hug we’ve shared in a long time. Turns out, I’ve just missed the hel—crap—out of everyone.

  She yawns and eyes Paul before pointing to the coffee maker. He understands her silent request, and moves to the machine, pouring two cups. For a moment, I find my eyes darting between all of them, a weird pit in my stomach.

  “What?” Jenny asks. When Paul saddles up to her side and hands her the steaming mug of coffee, planting a kiss on her cheek, it hits me.

  “Oh God,” I grumble.

  “What?” Mom asks while everyone goes silent.

  I twist my lips in slight embarrassment. “For a second I thought Jenny was about to get in trouble for having a boy sleep over. Got any liquor for the coffee? I need a re-emersion course, and fast.”

  After a brief moment of silence, the entire kitchen bursts into a fit of laughter. We settle around the breakfast bar for delicious Spanish omelet’s, hash browns, coffee, and loads of undiscussed premarital sex swirling through the air.

  After a full day of catching up on reality TV, and delicious local pizza for dinner, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep before eating more during our Thanksgiving meal tomorrow. I haven’t checked in with Matt since I arrived in Connecticut, so I decide to send him a quick text.

  Me: Forgot to tell you—made it back to CT okay. Drunk guy is probably nursing a heck of a hangover in Boston right now.

  Matt: Oh good, I was worried :) How’s home?

  Me: Amazing. You?

  I wince a little after sending the text, realizing that, while I don’t know the whole story, I do know things are dicey with him and his dad.

  Matt: Meh. My mom picked me up at the station in Atlanta last night and I went to bed right when I got home. Spent most of today watching TV in my room.

  Me: Avoiding reality?

  I decide to push it a little.

  Matt: For as long as possible.

  Me: Good luck with that. Any fun plans with friends this weekend?

  Matt: Homecoming is Friday. As last year’s King I’m expected to be there, I guess.

  My jaw drops open, and I press the button to call him.

  “Hello?” he answers, sounding surprised.

  “Yes,” I reply in my most proper, upper-crust accent, “I’d like to speak to His Majesty.”

  He grumbles in to the phone. “Come on!”

  “You come on! Homecoming King? How have I gone all this time and never knew this.”

  “Because my plan to never have you find out worked until just now.”

  I click my tongue. “Tsk, tsk. I can’t believe you held out on me.”

  “What about you? Aren’t you prom queen, or something?”

  “Ha! Yeah, that’s me. Are you drunk right now?”

  “I wish,” he answers a little darkly. “Do you have plans this weekend?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. There’s this freakin’ party at my ex-boyfriend’s house that everyone is going to. Whatever. I don’t know.”

  Matt is silent for a few seconds. “Wouldn’t that be weird?”

  “Yep. I’d have a bunch of friends there, though.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “Is there going to be alcohol there?”

  I shrug, as if he can see me. “Probably.”

  “Watch your six, K. Sawyer. Remember that bull’s-eye you talked about? Bet it followed you home, too.”

  My throat tightens, because I’ve considered the same thought. “Do you think for real?” I ask anyway.

  “Just be careful, okay?”

  “I will. Talk to you later. Have a good day tomorrow. And Friday, King.” I giggle like a damn schoolgirl.

  “You, too. Night.”

  “Night.”

  “Who was that?” Mom startles me as she stands in the doorway.

  I jump, sliding my phone onto the bed next to me. “Matt.”

  “Wells?”

  I nod.
>
  She crosses the room and sits on the edge of my bed. “You light up when you talk to him,” she says in a scientific tone.

  I shrug. “He’s nice to me. I feel safe with him.”

  Mom’s eyes move carefully over my face. “Do you like him?”

  “Mom, please.” I roll my eyes. “Even if I did, what business would I have dating a preacher’s son?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Why not?”

  She doesn’t point out the fact that I’m a preacher’s daughter.

  I stare at her for a while, tilting my head to the side. “Why not?” I state for clarification.

  She shrugs. “It might be good for both of you, don’t you think? He’d be an upstanding, safe, respectful guy, and you could teach him about the real world.”

  Rolling my eyes, I move so I’m sitting next to her, my legs dangling over the side of my bed. “He’s from Rome, Georgia, Mom. He’s not a hillbilly. It’s more of a city than this place.”

  “Still,” she says, wrapping an arm around me, “I know his dad, and—”

  “About that,” I cut in. “Do you know, like, what happened to his dad over the last few years?”

  Mom looks confused. “No, what?”

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head. “But it was something. I do know he got burnt out and stopped pastoring his church for a while. I don’t even know if he’s pastoring right now, at all. And, Matt’s made some weird references to sex and alcohol and stuff … I don’t know.” I briefly wonder if I should have mentioned any of this to her at all, because without a doubt she’ll have answers before I do.

  “Listen,” she says softly. “I knew him a long time ago, but he was an upstanding guy with a lot of character. If he fell into a hard time, I trust he’ll work through it.” Her confident tone does little to calm me.

  Actually, it pisses me off.

  “You trust he’ll work through it?” I stand, facing her with my hands on my hips.

  “Kennedy,” she says, standing next to me, “what’s the matter with you?”

  “Why didn’t you trust that Roland would work through it? Huh? If it was a hard time he’d fallen on, why’d you let him walk away so easily?” This unplanned emotional outburst stings my eyes with tears.

  “That’s different,” she states flatly.

  “How?”

  “I don’t have children with Buck Wells, Kennedy. I don’t know what his wife is, or was, going through.”

  “Shouldn’t someone trust more when it’s the father of their children at stake?”

  Mom’s voice drops to a near-whisper. “Things were different back then. I was different, and Roland was different. I was too close to the situation, and you are too young to understand.”

  “Oh, am I?” I challenge. “I’m, what, two years younger than you were when you got pregnant with me?”

  I’ve only seen my mom cry a few times in my life, but it looks like I’m about to again. Her eyes water and she looks to the ceiling. “Matt’s dad hasn’t walked away from the family, has he?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I mean, they all live together …”

  “Your father walked away from you, Kennedy.”

  “That’s old news, but thanks for rubbing it in. Why’d you let him?”

  “I was hurt, Kennedy. I loved him very much. He was my first love …” she trails off, sitting again on the edge of the bed. “I know Dan told you what he thinks,” she says out of nowhere.

  I sit next to her. “Thinks about what?” I feign ignorance.

  Mom looks at me and rolls her wet, teary eyes.

  “He told you that he talked to me?”

  She nods. “Yes. Believe me, we fought about it for days.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t call me with some ranting explanation.”

  “Even though he involved you, it really was between Dan and me. Bringing you in would have just made things worse.”

  “Is he right?” I ask timidly.

  Mom’s head jerks toward me, and I watch her lips tremble as she considers my question.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, placing my hand over hers. “I just … I really need to piece together where I come from, Mom.”

  “I did love Roland, Kennedy. Very much.”

  “And, is it like they always say about your first true love? Does it stick around in your bones?”

  Her nod is slow at first, but as her tears fall more rapidly, so does her nod speed up.

  “You still love him?” I ask in a shocked whisper.

  Mom sniffs, rubbing her sleeve on her nose. “It’s not the kind of love that would make a relationship now. It’s hard to explain. But, yes, a piece of me will always love Roland. I mean, how could I not? He gave me you.”

  I smile, allowing her to pull me into a hug. “It’s not just about me, though, is it? I mean, if you hadn’t gotten pregnant with me, would you have tried to stick it out with him a little longer? Like, if there wasn’t an infant about to be involved, would you have tried to save him?”

  She takes a deep breath, her tears drying almost instantly. “I don’t know, sweetie,” she admits, almost sadly. “But what I do know is, Dan and I love each other with an intensity that I know will stand the test of time. I never had that certainty with Roland. It was all fire and gasoline.”

  “So why do you … I don’t know … reminisce about it?”

  “Roland told me about the first outburst you had at his house. When you yelled at him for not being there for you when you were little.”

  I’m not surprised anymore about the interactions these two have. Seems like they’re a lot chattier behind the scenes than I gave either of them credit for.

  “Okay,” I say, prompting her.

  “That’s how I feel every single time I see him. I see the life we could have had flash before my eyes and I get angry, resentful, and hurt. It’s like losing the charismatic basketball captain all over again.”

  I grin, needing some levity. “What if he took the same path?” I ask. “What if you stuck with him and he still felt Jesus calling him into ministry? I mean, you were a Women’s Studies major who went into public policy. At some point, it would have given out, don’t you think? Or would you have been his wife? A pastor’s wife,” I reiterate for emphasis.

  Mom takes a cleansing breath and lets out a satisfied moan. “And, that’s where my trips down memory lane always lead me. We were star-crossed in some ways, I guess. Never meant to be.”

  In one swift sentence, my church-going, Episcopalian mother downplays the importance of the role Roland plays to thousands of people every single day. She could sit in the pew, but doesn’t, somehow, believe enough to have maybe married her true love, when he was called to God?

  What does she even believe? If you’re not all in, why wade around?

  My internal thought, a line from one of Roland’s most recent sermons, startles me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, standing again.

  I nod, quickly, not wanting to challenge my mother’s spiritual beliefs at this point in time. “Just tired.”

  She stands and places her hands on my shoulders. “Thank you for being the kind of mature, rational daughter with whom I could have a conversation like this.” She smiles, and it reaches her swollen, tired eyes.

  I nod, kissing her on the cheek. “Of course.”

  “Get some sleep,” she says when she reaches my door. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Several minutes after the door closes, I find myself still standing in the center of my room, wondering what the hell just happened. My mother admitted she would always love my father, but, honestly, it’s only her version of him that she’ll always love. That part makes me feel a little better, I guess, now that I don’t have to worry about her leaving Dan to get back together with Roland. Which, according to her own words, she wouldn’t do anyway, because she’s dismissive of his career. One on which he’s staked his life, and the lives of all he preaches to. Even hers.


  I fall into a fitful sleep. As I feel my heart softening toward my friends at CU, and to God if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t help but wonder how far down this road I can travel before Mom’s heart hardens toward me.

  When will she think I’ve “done the Jesus thing” long enough for her comfort? Politics aside, how long will it be before my relationship with God challenges my relationship with my mother?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Steal My Show

  Kennedy.

  Thanksgiving Day is here, and I’m so hungry for my grandfather’s cooking. This is the second Thanksgiving since my grandmother passed away, and we’ve taken to holding the holiday feast at our house. My grandfather still insists on bringing the turkey, which he puts the finishing touches on once he arrives at our house. Within minutes, the whole house smells like the turkey’s been cooking here over night.

  “Gramps this smells so good. How do you do it?” I hover in front of the oven and take a deep breath.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and offers a dry chuckle. “What, they don’t feed you at that fancy school of yours?”

  “Oh, I eat just fine, trust me.”

  Gramps hasn’t said much about my attending CU. He’s well aware of Roland and all the ugliness there, since Mom lived with him and my grandmother while she was pregnant, and for a short time immediately following my birth. But, oddly enough, he hasn’t said anything about my choice to be closer to Roland. Faith wise, I don’t really know where he stands. As is typical for most New England families, we don’t really discuss feelings, other than anger and resentment, so aside from his annual petitions of grace over our holiday meals, I’m not sure where he stands with God.