Erasing Faith

by Julie Johnson

  “I figured as much. Plus, they seemed like total gentlemen.”

  “Six Prince Freaking Charmings in a row, let me tell you.”

  “Why are you here?” I was truly curious. “This doesn’t seem like your scene.”

  Her eyes darted left, three tables down the row to where her roommate was sitting. “My friend Margot kind of tricked me into it. Personally, I would’ve preferred an evening of medieval torture.”

  “Hmm, what’s your pleasure? The Iron Maiden? Heretics Fork? Judas Cradle?”

  She winced. “None of the above. Just guillotine me and get it over with.”

  I laughed — a real, genuine chuckle that ricocheted inside my chest like a ping-pong ball. The sensation was totally foreign to me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed without pretense; not because I was obligated to, not because it was something the man I was pretending to be might’ve found amusing, but because I actually wanted to express enjoyment at the words and wit of another human being.

  “So…” She trailed off for a moment, a contemplative look in her eyes. “Wes.”

  She said it slowly, as though she was testing out the feeling of the name as it rolled off her tongue. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself in check when she stared at me with those molten gold eyes and said it again. “Wes Adams.”

  “That’s my name.” I swallowed roughly, my mouth suddenly dry. “Speaking of… isn’t it about time you told me yours?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. Just because you broke the rules of stranger club doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

  “And how many times do you have to meet someone before they stop being a stranger?”

  She shrugged and smiled unapologetically. “It varies.”

  I sighed. “Wasn’t there a fair trade clause somewhere in the stranger club charter?”

  She laughed full out now. “Fair trade only applies to questions, not names. But valiant effort.”

  When the bell rang abruptly, neither of us moved. I listened to the sounds of the couples around us, saying their goodbyes and starting for the next table. I sensed Faith’s new match, hovering at my elbow, waiting for me to move. Waiting for his five minutes with her. But I didn’t get up.

  “Linda is going to be mad at you,” she whispered, still grinning at me.

  “I don’t fucking care, Red,” I whispered back.

  “Dude, are you planning to move along any time soon?” Match number eight was not pleased with the delay. Five seconds later, the sound of a woman’s shrill voice, magnified through the megaphone, rang out in the air.

  “Sir! Yoo-hoo! There at table nine!” Her voice was stern, but still bubbly with enthusiasm. “Please remember the rule! When you hear the bell toll, it’s time to stroll!” She rang it again for added emphasis.

  Faith burst into laughter.

  “Alright, alright,” I said, pushing back from the table and rising to my feet. The waiting man immediately slipped into my spot and I turned my eyes to Faith, who was suddenly staring anywhere but in my direction. She looked a little crestfallen and, irrationally, I was pleased that the thought of me leaving upset her.

  I was so fucked up over this girl.

  Leaning down, I grabbed the strap of my easel case and slid it over my shoulder. When the man in my seat began to engage Faith in conversation, I extended my hand to her.

  Wide caramel eyes flew up to my face.

  I raised my brows and waggled the fingers on my open-palmed hand. “You coming, Red?”

  Her face broke into a smile as she nodded and slipped her hand into mine.

  Chapter Eleven: FAITH

  GRISLY FLOWER PETALS

  My hand twined with his and I was startled by how much I liked the feeling of his calloused palm pressed warm against mine. I glanced apologetically at match number eight, muttered a quiet “sorry” under my breath, and allowed Wes to pull me to my feet.

  “Excuse me!” Linda’s voice boomed through the megaphone. “Sir! Miss! There will be time to mingle at the conclusion of all the sessions. Where are you going?”

  “Oh, shit!” I cursed, looking up at Wes. “We’re so busted.”

  He deliberated for a moment. “Well, there’s only one thing to do…”

  I stared at him for a suspended instant, wondering if he was going to make me sit back down and suffer through another string of potential suitors. To my relief, his hand didn’t release mine — it only tightened and tugged, as he took off running at a breakneck pace that had me tripping over my own feet.

  “Run!” he explained needlessly.

  I giggled, breathless and reeling, as we sprinted off the bank toward the path. Linda was chastising us with a fresh round of admonishments via the bullhorn, but there was no stopping us.

  “Call you later, Margot!” I shouted over my shoulder to my roommate, locking eyes with her for a brief moment. Her eyebrows had drifted high on her forehead and she looked slightly concerned by the fact that I was making a break for it with a man she’d never before laid eyes on, but her mouth was half-lifted in a grin, so I knew she wasn’t too distraught that I’d abandoned speed-dating night.

  “Be safe, you crazy bitch!” she yelled after me, which only made me laugh harder.

  We ran like fugitives. Like Bonnie and Clyde, bolting from a big heist with the law on our heels.

  There was no one chasing us, but that wasn’t the point. There was something exhilarating about holding hands with Wes Adams, running through City Park like lunatics, laughing so hard it was impossible to catch a good breath.

  ***

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked, swallowing roughly.

  “It was my idea.”

  “Well, I’m just not sure I’m ready…”

  “You’re ready.”

  “I’m…um…”

  “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now.” His voice was teasingly exasperated.

  “It’s just so….high,” I whispered, tilting my head back to take in the sight of the towering Chain Bridge, sprawled out before us in all its glory. When my gaze swung down to the brown-blue waters of the Danube flowing below, I gulped nervously. I knew that, as far as bridges went, this one wasn’t exceedingly tall. But that knowledge did little to calm my stomach, which was flipping queasily at even the thought of the fifteen-minute walk across to the Buda side of the city.

  “It’s not that high,” Wes argued. “Even if you fell off — which you won’t — you’d probably walk away with nothing but a few bruises and a mouthful of river water.”

  I winced at the mental image of my body toppling over the railing.

  “You haven’t truly experienced Budapest until you’ve walked the Chain Bridge,” Wes pointed out.

  I nodded — I knew he was right. The famous suspension bridge had been a Hungarian landmark since its construction in 1849. Its distinctive square towers and the imposing, carved-stone lion statues that guarded either side made it one of the most beautiful sights in the entire city. Scores of tourists were walking it at this very moment, snapping pictures and laughing without a care as I deliberated on a sidewalk.

  Thus far, most of my exploring had been limited to the Pest side of the city for this very reason — I couldn’t work up the courage to walk across a damn bridge. The university, my apartment, and the Hermes offices were all in Pest and, after a bit of begging during my first shift, Konrad had agreed to give me delivery routes on that side only. So, I didn’t necessarily have to go to Buda. But if I didn't conquer this fear, I’d be missing out on half of the place I’d come to immerse myself in.

  Budapest was a city of split-personalities. Pest was a buzzing, bourgeois hub of restaurants, bars, clubs, and cafes; Buda was the richly historic home to the Royal Palace, Parliament, Castle Hill, and the Fisherman’s Bastion. Two distinct cities, one old and one new, divided by the Danube.

  As a history student, I really needed to explore the old side — and, if I wanted to avoid paying fo
r a ferry or a taxi every time, it was paramount that I get my ass walking across the damn bridges. Pronto.

  Unfortunately, as with most things, this was much easier said than done.

  “I’m afraid of heights,” I squeaked out.

  “You don’t say.” Wes’ voice was amused.

  “You know, if you were a nice guy, you’d let me take the ferry. You wouldn’t make me do this.”

  He was silent for a long moment — so long I thought he might not respond at all — but, finally, he broke the quiet with one, tiny word that, for no logical reason at all, sent chills down my spine.

  “Hey.”

  The softness of his tone — something I’d never heard from him before — immediately caught my attention. I turned my worried gaze away from the bridge in order to meet his eyes, which were empty of their usual teasing light and, instead, full of sincerity. His hand lifted carefully to touch my face, like a cautious hunter might approach a wounded wild animal — slow and steady movements, giving me ample time to bolt if I didn’t want the contact. To flinch back or flee if crossing this line from simple strangers to something more wasn’t what I wanted.

  I didn’t flinch or flee. In fact, I stood so still, I barely breathed as two fingertips landed gently on my cheekbone, skimming like the lightest flutter of a butterfly’s wings against my skin.

  Stifling the involuntary gasp that threatened to escape my lips, I felt the electricity of his touch coursing through me like a current, from the tiny points of contact where the pads of his fingers smoothed away the worry lines on my face, all the way down to the soles of my feet. He traced slowly up the bridge of my nose, across my forehead, and down my temple, circling my eye in a caress so delicate I had to stop myself from leaning into his touch.

  “You’re right,” he whispered.

  My thoughts were honed so intently on his featherlight fingers, I couldn’t string words together to form a response.

  “I’m not a nice guy,” he told me in a hushed voice. “I’m not going to give you a free pass when it comes to doing things you’re afraid of. If that makes me an asshole, so be it. Phobias, fears — either they own you, or you own them. Whether you let them rule you — that’s your choice, Red. I don’t live my life hiding from the shit that scares me. I don’t believe in running from fears; I believe in facing them.”

  My lips parted in an exhale and I stared into his eyes, totally transfixed, as he spoke on.

  “And, if it makes it easier… If you need me to…” He swallowed roughly. “I’ll face this one with you.”

  He held out his hand for me to take and, without hesitation, I slid mine into his grasp. I didn’t know why, I couldn’t begin to explain it… but I trusted Wes implicitly. I looked into his eyes and thought, for the first time in a long time, for the first time maybe ever, someone had finally taken the time to look beneath my surface. To understand who I was deep down, where no one could see.

  Except him.

  He saw me.

  Not the Morrissey’s youngest child, or Saffron’s little sister. Not the homecoming queen or the honors-level history student.

  Just me. Just Faith.

  A flurry of nervous butterflies erupted in my stomach — and they had absolutely nothing to do with heights.

  “If I die on this bridge, I’m gonna be so pissed at you,” I whispered.

  “Aren’t you the one who’s always saying you just need to have a little faith?” he reminded me, that devilish, crooked smile playing on his lips. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

  I laughed. “Thanks for the reassurance. And, speaking of faith…”

  His eyebrows arched in question.

  “My name.” I paused for a beat. “I’m Faith.”

  He was silent for a moment, a slow grin dawning like a glorious sunrise as he stared at me. My heart turned over at the sight.

  “Of course you are,” he eventually murmured.

  “What does that mean?” I asked narrowing my eyes at him. I wasn’t sure whether he was complimenting or criticizing me.

  “Just that it suits you.” He squeezed my hand in his. “Now, are you coming, or not?”

  My eyes drifted back to the bridge and my apprehension, lost momentarily as I stared into comforting, chocolate eyes, returned with a vengeance. “Um…” I swallowed against the lump that had lodged itself in my throat. “I, well, uh… See, the thing is—”

  Before I could voice the excuse hovering on the tip of my tongue, Wes laced his steady fingers through my shaky ones and pulled me close. My words dried up altogether as our bodies collided — interlocked hands trapped in the sliver of space between us, faces mere millimeters apart, eyes locking together in a heated gaze that made my heart race. For one crazy instant, I thought he might bend down just the slightest bit, close that final gap of distance between us, and kiss me.

  Slowly, so slowly, he moved closer.

  My eyes dropped to his mouth and I watched its progression as the breath caught in my throat.

  Closer.

  A fraction of an inch apart. Suddenly, I was longing for his lips to brush against mine. Praying for it. Fighting my innermost instincts, which were screaming to rise onto my toes and crush our lips together.

  Closer.

  A centimeter of space. Achingly near to tasting him. I licked dry lips in anticipation.

  Closer.

  His mouth was practically on mine, now. If either of us moved even the slightest bit forward, we’d be kissing. And I knew it was stupid and reckless. I was fully aware that I knew virtually nothing about Wes Adams, that running off with a stranger in a foreign city was, by far, the most idiotic thing I’d ever done. I recognized my stupidity easily — heard all the internal rebukes, saw all the red flags.

  Still, I was going to let him kiss me.

  No — I had to let him kiss me. There was no choice, any longer. Because if he didn’t close that final bit of space between us, I’d shatter into a million sexually-charged pieces. I’d crumble into a pile of what used to be Faith Morrissey — splinters of a girl caught between the cobbles at the mouth of the Chain Bridge, blowing down the ancient avenues, floating in the Danube like grisly flower petals.

  His lips parted; like a mirror, mine opened as well.

  His eyes stared into mine with a burning intensity; I had no idea what emotions were swirling in the depths of my own gaze.

  And, finally, after a small eternity of waiting, he moved that fraction closer. My heart pounded a mad tattoo in my chest as his breath ghosted across my lips…

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” he taunted, breathing the mocking words into my mouth and instantly obliterating the intensity of the moment.

  In that sliver of time, I wasn’t sure who I hated more — him, for toying with me, or myself, for believing him. I felt an inferno of embarrassment flame up my cheeks, and shoved at his shoulder as I moved out of his space. He didn’t let me get too far — his right hand was still interlaced tightly with my left.

  “You officially suck,” I muttered. I couldn’t believe I’d been so weak, that he’d drawn me in like that. And, if I was being honest, I was also irrationally disappointed that he’d only been joking around. “Let’s just walk the damn bridge.”

  He laughed and led me onward, to my doom.

  Chapter Twelve: WESTON

  COUNT TO FIVE

  She made it about three steps onto the bridge before her face paled, her palms went clammy, and her confidence fled entirely. Four steps, and the panic set in. Five, and she was ready to turn back around and forget the whole thing.

  “I can’t do this, Wes,” she whimpered softly, squeezing my fingers harder than an enemy insurgent with a goddamn pair of vise-grips. Since it was her, I didn’t mind.

  “Yes, you can.” I drew to a stop and turned so I could see her eyes. They were wide with terror as they lifted to meet mine. Seeing the raw fear there was an unwanted punch to the gut. It hit me hard, a stinging jab beneath my ribcage.

  For on
ce, I didn’t want to cause pain — I wanted to cure it.

  I didn’t want to break someone’s spirit — I wanted to bolster it.

  The sensation was strange. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

  I shoved it from my mind and focused on the beautiful, fearful girl before me.

  “Take a deep breath, Red. That’s it — in through your nose, out through your mouth. You’re panicking.”

  She nodded, breathing deeply as she fought to regain control.

  “Talk to me,” I ordered gently.

  “Um…” He eyes lost some of their fear as confusion suffused their depths.

  “What do you like?” I asked abruptly. “Hobbies, interests…”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “What are you studying?”

  “History.” She whispered her answer through parched lips, a new light entering her eyes. “I like history.”

  I nodded. “This bridge — it’s old. Really fucking old. I’m sure it has a great history. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Her mouth lifted in a hollow half-smile. “You want to hear about the history of a bridge?”

  “I want to hear the sound of your voice as we walk this damn historical bridge,” I corrected. “Frankly, the subject doesn’t matter much to me.”

  Her lips trembled into a full smile.

  “See the lions?” she asked, gesturing at the dual stone statues on either side, which guarded the entrance to the bridge like sinuous feline sentinels. They were lit with spotlights, easily visible despite the fading sun.

  Looking up, I nodded. “Kinda hard to miss those, Red.”

  She laughed softly. “Well, they’re from the original bridge. The rest was destroyed in World War II and eventually rebuilt, but the lions survived the siege.”

  “Why? They were too ugly to destroy?” I guessed, grimacing at the colossal cats.

  Faith gasped in outrage. “They aren’t ugly! They’re a work of art!”