All That Really Matters

by Nicole Deese

  Her round cheeks lifted into a grin. “I’m just happy she’s okay.”

  “Me too,” I said, turning my focus on Wren once again.

  The three-inch gash across her left cheek had been cleaned and sealed by Steri-Strips, forcing my gaze to drift farther up, to the patches of hair sheared off at odd, uneven angles. While the majority had been hacked off at her jawline, there were some shorter pieces, too. I wondered if they could be blended into layers? Or stacked into an A-line at the nape of her neck? I’d never been an expert in short hairstyles, but I supposed I was about to become one really, really soon.

  Monica stood and stepped back from the bed.

  She hitched a thumb toward the door. “I think I’ll grab some dinner with the other girls, if that’s okay? Clara went with Jake to get Wren some special takeout from downtown.”

  “Oh good, yes. Grab yourself some dinner, and would you mind texting Clara to let her know I’m here?” She probably needed to take a breather. At least she was with Jake.

  As soon as Monica left the room, I touched Wren’s hand. She stared down at the blankets bunched up on her lap.

  “Wren, I’m so sorry about—”

  She shook her head. “Please, can I go first? I have some things I really need to say to you.”

  I swallowed. “Of course.”

  “I knew about it. About Monica and Sasha’s secret. About the lying and the stealing.”

  It took me a minute to sort out what she was referring to. So many conversations had taken place since the argument with Sasha in the living room last night. “Okay, but you realize that doesn’t make what happened to you okay, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know that. But still . . . I’m not innocent. I should have told you. I should have trusted you with what was really going on here, with how bad it had become between the three of us.”

  If she only knew just how much I could relate! “I guess we’re all afraid to tell the truth at times. Even when it’s about what’s really going on inside us.”

  She was quiet for a beat before she said, “Can I tell you something I haven’t told anybody yet?”

  I braced myself. “Of course.”

  “My brother’s getting adopted. By the Coles. They told me three days ago, and I’ve been trying to sort through my feelings.”

  The bittersweet pang in my heart was as much for Wren as it was for little Nate. “Oh, Wren . . . I can only imagine how many feelings you must be wading through.”

  “Yes, but the Coles have been so kind to me. They even asked for my blessing to adopt Nate, and they want me to be a part of their lives.”

  I swallowed down the emotion climbing my throat. “And how do you feel about that?”

  She took a second to think, and then finally ran a hand through her cropped hair. “It’s not what I wanted at first, but I think it’s the right thing for Nate. They love him, and he really loves them, too. But it’s still hard.”

  “Of course it is. It’s complicated, and you’re allowed to process your feelings as you feel them.” I squeezed her hand and took an extra second to compose my thoughts. “Now, can I tell you something?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t ask more questions about what was happening here at the house. And I’m sorry I didn’t protect you last night like I wish I could have.” I reached up and touched a tuft of hair near her earlobe.

  “It’s not your fault, Molly. My hair will grow back. And the cut on my face will heal.” She said this as if regurgitating words she wanted to believe, but couldn’t quite bank her life on yet.

  Because redefining ourselves wasn’t ever simple or easy. Nor was allowing our identity within to take precedence over the identity we saw each day in our reflection.

  “You’re right. It will. But that doesn’t mean you won’t struggle with the loss of it. Losing a part of who you’ve been will take time to work through. And that doesn’t make you selfish or shallow or wrong. It makes you human. It makes you real.”

  Something tugged inside my spirit, beating hard against my ribcage. “I’m working some things out, too.”

  Curiosity crimped her brow. “You are?”

  “Yes, and I think I’ll continue working them out for a while. Maybe we can do it together?”

  She smiled. “So you’re going to stick around for a while?”

  “Absolutely I am. I need this place, and I need you and the other girls. I hope you know that. You’ve all taught me so much over these last couple months.” I chuckled softly. “Probably far more than anything I could ever teach you.”

  Wren blinked up at me. “My mom . . . she wasn’t like you. She wasn’t strong or brave or confident.” Again, she played with the blankets on her lap. “I love her, and I miss her every day, but there were a lot of things she couldn’t teach me and my brother because she simply didn’t know how. But I want to be stronger. For Nate, but also for me. I know I’m book smart, but what good is that if I never take a risk? If I never speak up about the things that really matter? The way you do all the time.”

  Oh, how wrong she was. Because I wasn’t actually brave or confident at all. And the only risks I’d taken had been calculated endeavors for my gain. I’d lived in a fantasy world of six-to-eight-minute video segments, absent of authenticity and reality even though I’d often claimed those nouns as subtitles to my brand. But Makeup Matters with Molly certainly hadn’t trended on the depth of my vulnerability.

  “I haven’t always taken chances where they mattered, Wren. But I’m ready to change that.”

  She looked at me funny, as if she’d missed the connection I’d made in my head but hadn’t voiced aloud. I slipped the hood still hiding my hair off my head. Wren gasped and covered her mouth, her eyes bright and unblinking. “Molly . . . what . . . did you do?”

  “Let’s learn how to be brave together, shall we?”

  32

  Molly

  The amber light from Silas’s office spilled into the quiet hallway like a beacon showing me the way. His office was a sanctuary for all those seeking answers to unspoken questions. Which fit my needs tonight like a pair of high-quality Italian heels.

  Since saying good night to Wren, my head had become a jumble of half-chewed thoughts. And I was desperate to process them in a space that felt even safer than home.

  Before I crossed into his open study, I stopped short, pausing in the doorway to observe him without notice. Though I’d seen Silas reading in the corner chair of his office before, I’d never observed him quite like this, with his head bent and resting on his hand, as if the only thing that mattered was the piece of paper he held. My gaze drifted from his hand to the open, overstuffed shoebox beside him. Were those . . . letters?

  I debated my next course of action, wondering if I should allow him privacy, but the floorboard creaked beneath the shift in my weight and Silas looked up at me. Though he didn’t say a word, his eyes shimmered with a story so heartbreaking I couldn’t help but go to him.

  “What is it, Silas? What are these?” I lowered myself to the floor, kneeling between him and the table where the stack of letters had been placed.

  “They’re from my brother.” The reading light behind Silas shone through the page in his hand, illuminating the slanted, narrow handwriting as well as the signature on the bottom.

  Carlos.

  “From when he was in prison?” I asked, wondering if I needed to tiptoe around the subject or if it was better to be direct. I didn’t know a ton about Carlos, but what I did know was complicated. Even if Silas had wanted to make it an open-and-shut case, family matters rarely operated that way. No matter how I’d tried to categorize my parents, stuff them into folders with labels of my choosing, they never quite fit. The same way I hadn’t quite fit in theirs, either.

  “Yes.” He rubbed at his head. “There are forty-two in total. My mom kept them all, stored them for me. I wasn’t sure if or when I would read them, but . . . here.” Gently, he lifted two lette
rs from the front of the box and handed them to me. “Start with the one on the top.”

  “Oh, Silas. Are you sure you want me to—”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  I stared down at the letters, the one on top addressed to Daniel and Judy Whittaker. “This is addressed to your parents.”

  He offered a single nod, as if that was all he could afford by way of explanation. With extra care, I slid the thin piece of paper out of the envelope and read the words Carlos Rodriguez had penned in black ink. Within the first line, his purpose was clear. This was a letter of deep regret, an apology in hopes of making amends.

  But it was also much, much more than that. A story of a man, patched together through the insights and context he provided, telling of an older teen boy who’d become addicted to the drug he’d helped his mother and her merry-go-round of boyfriends sell. A testimony of trial and pain. Hardship and bitterness. And in many ways, I supposed this apology was also a confession, because where Silas had been offered a second chance at a happy childhood with a functional family who knew how to love and protect him, Carlos had spent his adolescence trying to find a path of his own. A home of his own.

  With shaky fingers, I traded out the first letter for the second, this one causing my eyes to mist and burn the instant I read the first word. Brother. It was much shorter than the one he’d written to the Whittakers, only a few lines, yet somehow the words clutched my heart and refused to let go.

  Brother,

  This is my last letter to you from the inside. Next week I’ll be a free man. But I know true freedom isn’t the sun on my face or money in my pocket. That only comes from God and His forgiveness of my sins.

  I’ve hurt many people. But I’ve hurt you most. I’ve sat with my regrets and bad desisons decisions for three years now. I know there is nothing I can do to desearve deserve your forgiveness. But I hope you will give it anyway.

  You have always been the better man and the better brother.

  I’m sorry.

  Carlos

  I finished reading those last few lines while holding my breath. I lowered the letter to my lap and peered into the face of a man I’d grown to care for so deeply. “Wow, Silas. This is . . .” But I couldn’t really define what it was, nor was it my place to define it. Carlos was Silas’s brother; this was his story to own and to share. “What are you thinking?”

  Silas exhaled slowly. “I think it’s been a really long day.”

  “It has indeed.”

  He stared down at my hand. “Would you mind if we put the no-touching rule on pause for tonight?”

  Without a second’s hesitation, I answered by reaching for his hand. He slipped his fingers through mine, saying nothing more for several heartbeats.

  “Are you going to read them all?”

  He nodded. “Yes, and I think I might call the pastor who’s been mentoring him, too.” He glanced up at me. “What do you think?”

  That he would even ask my opinion on such a deeply personal matter made me weepy. “I think that sounds like a great next step.”

  He rubbed a hand down his face. “I can’t always see straight when it comes to Carlos.”

  “I know,” I said, squeezing his hand. “But it sounds like he’s processed through a lot and wants lasting change.”

  Silas planted his elbows on his knees and lowered his head, but he still kept a firm grip on my hand. “How can I direct a ministry based on the notion that with enough guidance and grace the trajectory of any life can change . . . and yet struggle to believe it could be true for my own brother?”

  “But you do believe it, Silas.” I squeezed his palm. “I know you do, because you believed it was true for me.”

  “You were different.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m really not. For many years I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t lost. That I’d just found my own way to live—a prettier, happier, more sparkly way.” I focused on the definition of his jawbone, then sighed. “But really, my sin wasn’t any prettier than a junkie looking for his next hit. I only learned how to package it better.” I met his eyes. “I was just as lost as your brother, and you didn’t turn me away. Just like Carlos, I needed people who were willing to speak truth into my life, willing to show up at my door and drag me back to where I belonged.” I stared down at our joined hands, grateful in a way I’d never been. “Before all this, before I came to Fir Crest, I believed my online followers were synonymous with real-life friends. That might sound crazy to you, but it had been so long since . . . ” I swallowed and released a deep breath. “It had been so long since I’d let myself truly connect to anybody as just me, Molly. And not as the persona of me.”

  Silas touched my cheek, sliding his fingers to my jawline and the short hair that still didn’t feel like mine. “There is nothing just about you.”

  “Do you think I’m supposed to shut down my channels?”

  The sharp change in subject reflected on his expression. “What?”

  “Makeup Matters with Molly. I’ve been thinking about it all day—longer than that, if I’m honest.” I chuckled, remembering my revelation in the sauna at Sophia Richards’s house. “Since the Tubee incident.”

  Silas studied me, saying nothing for the longest time. Although he may have found my videos favorable, he’d made his overall feelings about the danger of social media clear from the start. And in many ways, I couldn’t blame him. I was becoming less of a fan myself every day.

  “Why did you say supposed to shut your channels down?” he asked, emphasizing the same words I’d used.

  “Because . . .” Though it wasn’t one of my usual traits to shrug, I found myself doing it now, shrugging my shoulders like Insecure Teenage Molly. “I feel like today was a redo of sorts. A life redo. I want to be different, Silas. I want to prove that I can be different.”

  “To whom?”

  “To . . .” I sighed. I wasn’t supposed to be trying to prove myself anymore, right? Was that what he was getting at? That trying to prove myself was the exact mentality that had led me to a self-focused destination I no longer wished to call home: my little island of one. “To God?”

  He hiked an eyebrow. “Do you feel like God is asking you to give up your platform? Your influence?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” My voice trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.

  “Because if you gave everything up, He might, what? Love you more? Forgive you more? Accept you more?” I didn’t miss the way Silas tried to catch my eye. But I didn’t want to be caught. All of that was true. “If that’s your goal, you’ll never meet it. There’s nothing you can sacrifice that’s worthy of what God gives us freely.”

  “Now you sound like my brother,” I said.

  “Then he’s even smarter than I thought.”

  I punched him in the arm. “Seriously, though, wouldn’t the bravest thing I could do be to start my life over? With some kind of worthy nonprofit cause? Like . . . ” I thought for a second. “Like Bible translation in a tiny village overseas?”

  He laughed at that. “Bible translation? Is that a secret passion of yours?”

  Twisting my mouth to the side, I shook my head. “No. But it would totally be a Catherine cause.” I tipped my head back, staring up at the ceiling fan in his office.

  “Who and what is a Catherine cause? Is this the same Catherine reference you brought up in a dark parking lot at the beginning of summer?”

  “Yes. Same one.” I sighed. “Catherine is the imaginary girlfriend I made up for you—a justice-seeking lobbyist for the vulnerable and disadvantaged. But I’m sure she probably smuggles Bibles into communist countries as a side hustle, too.”

  After several beats of silence, Silas said, “You are without a doubt the strangest woman I’ve ever known.”

  “I believe it.” I watched the ceiling fan go round and round. “All I’m saying is that my old routine can’t be my long-term goal anymore—I mean, I won’t make any drastic changes until after that scholar
ship is deposited and we get through The Event without issue, but after that, I don’t know. It just feels so shallow. Like why would eye creams and hair diffusers matter to God? Why does any of it matter at all?”

  Silas was quiet for so long it caused me to lift my head. Not surprisingly, he was staring right at me. “It matters because you matter to Him. Molly, your enjoyment of makeup and fashion and every shade of sparkle was not some accident. You don’t honor God with your life by changing your personality and tossing out everything that is unique about who you are. You honor Him by offering those very gifts back to Him.” He tucked my crazy hair behind my ear. “What if God wants to work through the platforms you already have? Through the followers you already have influence with?”

  Could God really have been part of Makeup Matters all along? “But how?” Yet even as I asked it, I could feel Silas’s gaze rove over my self-cut hair.

  I shook my head. “Oh no. Don’t even think of it. I couldn’t go on camera like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “This . . .” I grabbed at the ends of my chopped mane. “Nobody would even believe it was me. Plus, what would I even say?”

  “The truth. You’d say the truth.”

  “Silas.” I closed my eyes, seeing Wren’s face behind my eyelids, her sweet voice describing the kind of vulnerability she believed I possessed. The kind of bravery that would go on a livestream video without any of the pretty armor I usually hid behind. “It feels so much riskier to just . . . be myself. Especially on camera in front of thousands of people.”

  “I’m sure it does.” I felt the warmth of his fingertips graze my cheek. “But I think you’ll be surprised at how your viewers might respond to a heartfelt post from a woman they admire. I’m pretty partial to her myself.”

  Allowing the idea to take root, I captured his hand against my cheek and refused its release. “Then you do it, too.”