Next to it:Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.John 15.
I pick up another discarded page.Another mark, just as subtle.Romans 10.If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
Then another.A tiny dot beside the verse.Ephesians 2.For by grace you have been saved through faith.And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works.
Acts 16.Same small mark.Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved.
They're all over the table.Not hidden.Not tucked away.Just...there.In plain sight where I'd see them when I made coffee.When I sat down.When I looked at her work.
Each one marked with a barely-there pencil stroke that saysread this one.
They all tie into one theme.
Believe.Confess.Be saved.
Three steps.Instructions.
The bedroom door opens.Adena comes out dressed in workout clothes, bag over her shoulder, hair pulled back in a ponytail.The ring is still on her finger—looks out of place against the casual tank top and leggings, but she hasn't taken it off.
Her eyes flick to the pages in my hand, then to my face.She doesn't look away.Doesn't pretend she didn't mean for me to see them.
She left them here.Scattered across the table where I'd find them."Mistakes" that aren't mistakes at all.Each verse carefully marked so I wouldn't miss them.
She’s leaving me Scriptures like love letters and hoping I'm smart enough to read them.
She's telling me something she can't say out loud.Not with the walls listening.Not with Marquez's people watching.
“You ready?”she says.
There's a challenge in her question.An invitation.
I tap the page and nod slowly.“I need a little more time,” I say.
Her smile carries the same message the verses do—grace offered, not earned.“Whenever you're ready, I’ll be right behind you,” she says.
The words settle over me like a weight I don't know if I can carry.She's offering me something I've spent years running from, something I'm not sure I deserve.
But the way she looks at me—like she sees past all the lies and blood and broken pieces to something worth saving—makes me want to believe her.
Adena
Valentina’s gym takes up the entire second floor of a warehouse in the Industrial District.Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the street, but the glass is tinted dark—you can see out, but no one can see in.
Everything gleams.Chrome.Glass.LED strips running along the ceiling casting cold white light over everything.And it’s full.Men lifting heavy, grunting through sets.Women on cardio equipment, barely sweating, makeup perfect.Everyone’s watching everyone else, sizing each other up.
Nothing like Jericho.
On the ranch in North Dakota, the gym has scuffed mats and smells like old leather and sweat.Scripture covers one wall:“Cursed is the man who trusts in man, who makes flesh his strength, and whose heart turns away from the Lord.”—Jeremiah 17:5.That gym is familiar, safe.
This place is neither.
This is where the muscle and the girls hang out, and right now Jagger’s showing off his in a tank.The swagger in his walk is pronounced, chest out, shoulders back, taking up space.Around me, the gym pulses with bass-heavy music filled with expletives and the clang of weights hitting the floor.Grunts.Exhaled breath.The sharp chemical smell of cleaning products mixed with sweat and expensive cologne.
I jam my earbuds in without hitting play, muffling the noise, and start the treadmill slow.The belt hums beneath my feet, rubber squeaking with each step.
A surgically enhanced woman on the elliptical beside me glances over—quick assessment, then dismissal.Two thugs by the Smith machine stop mid-set to watch.Their conversation drops to murmurs I can feel more than hear.
The ring on my finger catches the overhead lights as I grip the handrails and clanks noisily.I push the speed up, let the burn start in my calves and spread.Focus on breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth.The rhythm usually clears my head, but not today.Today I’m tracking every glance, every whisper, every person calculating whether I’m worth their attention or their contempt.
