Sway (19 page)

I glance toward heaven and give it an eye roll. She doesn’t notice.

“I locked my keys in my car, and Pop-A-Lock won’t be here for another hour.” She spins around to look in the window again. “I can see them right there in the cup holder. So, so stupid.”

I should be annoyed, but I’m not. “Move back and let me look.” She takes a couple of steps away and I look inside, but just as quickly her face is pressed to the glass right next to me, a strand of her long hair brushing against my cheek. It’s all I can do not to groan out loud. Focusing on the task at hand is next to impossible, but necessary.
Keys, simple press-button lock at the top of the door, her hair smells like strawberries
…

I give myself a mental flogging and eye the object dangling from her fingers. “How much do you love that umbrella?” I try to remind myself that I’m allergic to strawberries. It doesn’t help.

Her eyebrows push together and she holds it up. She shrugs. “I have another one just like it in my trunk,” she says.

“Good.” Remembering that kiss at the center and careful not to touch her, I take it from her hands and pop out two thin metal rods and hook them together, then use my own keys to pry open her window a fraction of an inch. When a small slit materializes, I slide the metal rods inside and push them down, hit the lock, and—voila—the lock pops up and the alarm goes off. The whole process takes about ten seconds.

As she silences the loud noise, I open her door and hand her the remnants of her broken umbrella. “Sorry about that.”

She just looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Do I even want to know how you knew to do that?” she says.

Biting back a grin, I look across the parking lot before leveling my gaze back at her. “Probably not. Scratch that, definitely not.”

She blinks at me a couple of times before apparently deciding I’m not that threatening, and then gives me a little smile. My pulse trips over itself. “Thanks,” she says. “Now move back so I can unload these groceries. My ice cream is probably melted already.”

I grab two bags and walk them around to the other side of the car. “Healthy girl, I see. What kind?”

“Heath bar crunch and cookie dough,” she says. “I couldn’t make up my mind, so I bought them both.”

“What happened to vanilla?”

She gives me a look. “I decided to be more adventurous.”

“A girl after my own heart,” I say without thinking. The girl doesn’t believe in God, and I’m a pastor. Why do I keep forgetting this? Clearing my throat, I shut the back door and shove a hand in my pocket, wanting to be anywhere but here and nowhere else in the world at the same time. Finally, I give in and say what I’ve wanted to say since I saw her out here. “What are you up to today? Have any big plans?” All of a sudden I’m hoping she has none. I want to have a reason to ask her to join me in mine.

“I’m supposed to meet Lucy for lunch, and then I have a meeting with my advisor to discuss next semester’s classes,” she says. Not what I wanted to hear.

“Oh. Okay.” I wish I wasn’t facing her now, because I’m certain she can see the disappointment on my face. I twirl my keys and fist them in an attempt to shrug it off. “Then I’ll see you around.”

“Caleb?” I’ve taken a few steps toward my car, so I have to turn around to see her again.

“Yep?” Casual. Cool. Collected. Indifferent.

“What are you doing today?” The question takes some effort, and I can see the internal struggle in her eyes, probably wondering if hanging out with me is a good idea.

I stop twirling my keys. It isn’t a good idea. “I’m on my way to see Ben.”

She cocks her head. “On Friday? I thought you said you only saw him on Mondays.”

I rub the back of my neck. “He’s having a bit of a tough time right now, so I told him I’d come. In fact, he said that if I’m not there in fifteen minutes, he’ll beat me up.”

She smiles. I smile back at her. For the first time all week, I have a reason to. “I’d be scared if I were you,” she says as her gaze drifts across the parking lot. She bites her bottom lip in thought. “Do you mind if I come with you?”

Casual. Cool. Collected. Indifferent. This time it’s harder to pull off, because I’m elated at her question. “I guess that would be okay.” I shrug, trying to make the act look convincing. “You’d better work on your questions, though, or he might ban you from coming back.”

At that, she rolls her eyes. It’s all I can do not to stare at them. “You let me worry about the questions, hot shot. You just worry about following me to my apartment.” At my questioning look, she says, “I have ice cream to unload, in case you’ve already forgotten.”

I had. So sue me.

Hot shot
. I like the nickname.

She slams her door and starts the ignition, not even waiting to see if I’m following behind her.

She knows I will.

Kate

“All My Mistakes”

—The Avett Brothers

“L
ooks will only get you so far, pretty lady. You might be beautiful, but eventually you’re gonna need to learn to play basketball, or I’m telling Caleb not to bring you back, and I’ll mean it this time,” Ben says after we’ve wrapped an hour later. I’ve asked him my questions, this time not as boring according to him, snapped a few more photos, and waited an obscenely long amount of time while Ben visited the bathroom…time in which I used to tighten up my notes and lose a miserable game of HORSE to Caleb. I shot nothing but air balls and one direct slam to the rim, which is exactly the way I’m playing against Ben now, except his rules are much more bizarre than Caleb’s were, especially for the athletically challenged who hate sweat unless it involves the occasional jog or lying on a beach towel close to a tropical body of water.

Like me.

My make-up is definitely running now. I swipe a sweat droplet off my eyebrow and try hard to maintain balance. All three of us are surprised I haven’t fallen over yet.

“This game makes no sense,” I snap. “I’ve never seen anyone in a real basketball game shoot a ball backwards with one leg hanging in the air. It’s dumb. Not to mention a little degrading.” I need to pee, and it doesn’t help matters that Ben and Caleb are making me stand for so long with my thigh pressed to my stomach. And this is the third straight time. They both deserve zero points for creativity and a punch on the arm for cruelty.

Instead, they stare at each other like I’m the crazy one.

“Kate, Kate, Kate,” Caleb says on a sigh as he slaps the ball from my hand. My stomach flutters a little at the way he says my name, but I mentally command it to settle. We’re as different as sun and rain. Besides, that combination usually creates a summer storm, and I’ve never gotten over my fear of thunder. “The first rule in HORSE is that there are no rules,” he continues, giving the ball a bounce. “The second rule is that anyone who complains has to do twenty sit-ups.” He nods once to the floor. “On the ground, now.”

My breath rushes inward. “That isn’t a rule! You made that up! Besides, Ben hasn’t done any sit-ups today, and neither have you.” And considering my current predicament, sit-ups are the last thing I need. I shift my weight from one foot to the other as a sharp pang of pressure hits my bladder, but I really don’t want to mention my need to go. Caleb gave Ben the hardest time when he finally returned from his trip that lasted forever. I just can’t subject myself to the same fate. Sometimes my need for self-preservation trumps all things logical. I’m a girl. Whatever.

“That’s because we haven’t complained one time.”

“You have no reason to complain when you control the whole game!” I protest.

Caleb and Ben eye one another, sharing a wicked gleam that I don’t like. I can sense an ambush, and this is definitely going to result in one. But that’s the thing they don’t know about me—I’m nothing if not prepared.

“I think it’s my turn to make some rules,” I say, with much more bravado than I feel.

“Okay,” Caleb nods, unable to hide a smirk. “Now you’re in charge. So tell us, Michael Jordan, how are we going to play?” He tosses the ball at me. I breathe a sigh of relief when I actually catch it.

“It’s about time you let me call the shots.” I raise an eyebrow and bounce the ball, cringing when it hits my foot and shoots sideways. Retrieving it, I try my own smirk that really doesn’t work under the circumstances as I sidle up against the three-point line. “See if you can do this.” Thinking I need to learn to keep my mouth shut, I sail the ball in a hook-shot over my head.

Ben and Caleb both laugh as though they rehearsed it. “Now,” Caleb says, retrieving the ball, “are we supposed to air ball it into the water cooler like you did, or should we actually try to make it into the basket?”

“Shut up, Caleb.” I eye the cooler, checking for a leak or some other sign that it’s broken. Seeing nothing but a slight tilt to the side that wasn’t there before, I ignore it and turn to watch him, and then Ben, hook-shot the ball straight into the net. It’s like I was cursed with an inability to be superior, even in my attempt to play a dumb game.

I say this out loud, and two minutes later, I have all five letters, and I’ve griped my way through eleven sit-ups. It’s on the twelfth that I can’t take it anymore and get up to run, the sound of more obnoxious laughter following me the whole way down the hall.

A few minutes later and feeling a whole lot better, I emerge from the bathroom, only to find an empty and silent gym. No sign of Caleb, Ben, or any of the other kids that had been so loud only a few minutes ago. A woman walks out of the kitchen and glances at me with what I interpret as displeasure, although it could be my guilt creeping up for hitting that water cooler. She walks away, and since she’s the only one of us who seems to know what she’s doing, I follow her around a corner. And that’s when I see it.

Everyone is congregated around three long tables preparing to eat dinner. What had been only moments before a very rambunctious group has morphed into a roomful of silent and respectful observers, each listening to a man at the front of the room give what I’m pretty sure is a talk about acceptance. There’s no microphone, so it’s hard to hear from the back of the room.

For the first time—since a gymnasium scattered with children doesn’t allow for the best perspective—I see the children in light of their varying circumstances. To my right sits a gathering of a half-dozen teenagers in contrasting degrees of cleanliness. Two of them text on old flip phones while three others talk in less than quiet whispers. A few empty spaces over, a group of elementary-aged kids sit with their hands in their laps, listening as best they can with the pleasant aroma of grilling hamburgers hovering over the room.

On cue, my stomach growls. I quickly try to absorb the sound with my hand just as my gaze lands on the lone toddler in the room, a three-year-old boy with skin the color of warm cocoa wearing an ill-fitting t-shirt and diaper, legs swinging back and forth from his perch on a man’s lap. Everything stops except my heart, which speeds up to twice its normal rhythm.

Caleb’s is holding the boy. I watch as he tweaks the toddler on the chin and whispers something in his ear. A lump forms in my throat when the little boy rewards Caleb with a wide smile—the cutest smile I’ve ever seen. From his spot next to Caleb, Ben laughs. Caleb grins and holds up a finger to quiet him, then steals an arm around Ben’s shoulder and pulls him gently to his side. Ben settles in as though he belongs there, and I wish with a longing deep in my chest that I could take his place—that I could be the one to lean into Caleb’s side. But I don’t belong there.

I don’t belong here, either.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I turn my gaze to the speaker.

The man looks to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with the trim build of a man who still keeps up a regular workout regimen. His auburn hair is parted on the side in the clean-cut style most politician’s wear, but it’s thick. Age has served him well. Something about him looks familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him. I take a cautious step forward to get a better look, but just as things start to click into place inside my brain, he goes silent.

For a horrifying second I think he’s looking straight at me, and I want to turn and run away. I’m caught. Outed. Identified as the imposter in the room. But I don’t run fast enough.

He bows his head.

All around the room, one-by-one, everyone else bows, too.

Even Caleb.

And that’s when everything inside me explodes—even though every muscle inside my body goes rigid, even my lungs, because I was raised to believe that God doesn’t exist. As far as my parents are concerned, I’ve never prayed in my life.

Except for one time that I never, ever talk about.

I can’t breathe, because I’m not supposed to absorb this. I can’t focus, because I’m not supposed to see this. I can’t think, because I’m not supposed to know this. I can’t listen, because I’m not supposed to hear this.

The man with the athletic build prays.

And then it clicks. This is the man whose picture hangs on my parent’s refrigerator—has for four weeks now. The man I see every time I visit and want a glass of milk, a slice of cheese, a scoop of ice cream that my lactose-intolerant body isn’t able to tolerate but craves anyway. He doesn’t look like a threat. He doesn’t sound like one either.

Dear Lord, thank you for this food and every one of the children represented here. Bless them, bless what we’re about to eat, and bless the remainder of our time together. Amen.

Everyone opens their eyes, and just like that, the silence in the room detonates, replaced by the sound of three dozen overly-excited voices as dinner is served. Fellowship and laughter rings everywhere, and from his spot two tables over, Caleb catches my eye and waves me over. I force myself to walk towards him, and when I’m halfway there, he tosses me a roll that I somehow catch even though I don’t recall my hands moving. Score one for me. Needing something to settle my nervous stomach, I sit down next to him and take a bite. He situates the toddler between us and looks up at me.

“Where’ve you been, Princess?”

Princess. The nickname is back. I wish joy was the first emotion I felt upon hearing it, but it isn’t. Any trace of joy that might’ve been inside me disappeared a few minutes ago during that prayer. The woman I followed in here places a plate on the table in front of me and I pick up my fork. Hamburgers after all—my favorite—but I can only manage to pick at it. Even the thought of eating makes my stomach churn.