He looked at me then with a faint crooked smile on his lips. “I’m always sure.”
I swallowed and tried my best to control my breathing at what I assumed was a double meaning.Breathe: in and out.
“So, I guess you’re stranded here, huh?” he asked, and I almost felt like an imposition.
“Yeah. My mom’s gonna kill me. I could figure out a ride home,” I said, even though I absolutely couldn’t.
“Nah. I’ll have my mom call her in the morning. Tell her you stayed for church with the fam. She won’t mind. Plus, your mom loves me.”
He winked at me, and once again, I was awestruck. Not at his looks, but at his explanation. And the way he said it so naturally—like everyone goes to church on Sundays and it’s something I should’ve known.
“You go to church?” I asked, because maybe he was joking. Joking would make more sense, wouldn’t it?
“Yeah, of course.” His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips curved in confused amusement. I realized the joke was on me, because he was serious.
I was stunned. Confused, even. I didn’t understand how the two went together—this cool kid and religion. The only thing I knew of church was when my uncle became a Christian, and my mom started bashing him for being aJesus freak. We hadn’t seen him in ten years at that point, and she swore we never would. I always remembered the things he said, though. They stuck with me, deep inside, like they were the key to something my soul knew I’d need. Itgave me just enough faith in God to wonder if He might have a plan for me, too.
Not some special, shining-light-from-the-heavens kind of plan, but maybe something small. Something that slipped into the cracks of regular life and saved you—like kindness when you don’t deserve it or peace that makes no sense.
I didn’t tell anyone I prayed sometimes. I didn’t even know if I was doing it right. But I did it because a part of me hoped that uncle, the one we didn’t talk about anymore, was right. That maybe he saw something the rest of us weren’t ready to see. And maybe there was something in it for me too.
It was at this moment I remembered a prayer I prayed on my steps one day. My parents were in the middle of a battle royale, blaming me and my siblings for everything and anything they could. Screaming how neither of them wanted us anyway. I felt so alone, so discarded. I prayed to anyone who would listen:
Dear God, or… anyone. If you’re real, please get me out of here…
“So… spend the night?” E’s adorable expression cast me out of the shadows of my mind.
I laughed at the abrupt change of pace. “I think I have to.”
He looked around the wet basement, his inebriated friends spread out on various surfaces. “Better come upstairs where it’s safe.”
“And dry,” I said, and he chuckled.
E walked me to his room, and it was just as I expected it to be. It was neat and tidy with well-kept wooden furniture and a made bed to match. The walls were a charcoal gray,and his comforter was black with dark gray plaid sheets. One wall was covered in CDs and vinyl records, and he had a record player in the corner, next to his TV. Another wall had posters taped to it—all were musicians from various eras, except for a Western one.
“John Wayne,” I said when I recognized the image.
He looked over and nodded to me from his dresser. “He’s the man.The Duke.”
I gave him a half smile. “He’s alright. I’m a Clint Eastwood girl myself.”
“Clint Eastwood over John Wayne?” Feigned annoyance hung in his tone.
“He’s the classic antihero!” I defended.
“Who likes the antihero over the real thing?”
“Um, like everyone?” I laughed.
“They do everything wrong!” He laughed with me.
I shrugged. “Maybe that’s their beauty. Loving their brokenness. Their twisted moral compass always misdirects them, yet somehow leads them to do the right thing anyway.”
E chuckled as he walked toward me, shaking his head. “You and your broken cowboys.”
“They’re not broken,” I teased. “They just carry their damage well.”
He leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, as he looked at me. He let out a low chuckle. “You really are a Clint Eastwood girl.”
