It is Risen

by H. Claire Taylor

  As Brian’s eyes scanned the rest of the dark bar while he swiveled his Lone Star in its can, Jessica caught Chris’s eye, mouthed, “Angel?”

  Chris pointed to himself and nodded.

  Come on, Chris.

  She shook her head then jabbed a finger at Mr. Foster.

  Chris crinkled his nose but his gaze roamed the air around Mr. Foster’s body.

  He shook his head decisively.

  Brian sighed and slung his arm over the back of the booth. “Yes, second only to my healthy repulsion to Dolores, my intuition about you was the strongest thing I felt in Mooretown.”

  “Who’s Dolores?” Chris asked. “Your ex-wife?”

  Mr. Foster laughed. “Thank god, no. Dolores Thomas. The principal?”

  Chris’s mouth opened slowly like a drawbridge. He pointed sharply at Mr. Foster. “Wait, you hated her too?”

  “I don’t know if hate is the right word.”

  Chris nodded along. “Exactly. I get it, man. I just didn’t know anyone else felt that way.”

  “Wait …” Mr. Foster’s eyes shifted from Chris to Jessica then back again. “You don’t like her?”

  Chris shot Jessica an apologetic half smile. “Yeeeah, she always kind of terrified me.”

  Mr. Foster pointed to Jessica. “But you still keep in touch with her?”

  It was a painful subject, but Jessica went with honesty. “Not so much lately. I’ve been meaning to. We just sort of fell out of touch toward the end of college.”

  “Good riddance,” Mr. Foster said quickly.

  “That’s what I say.” Chris held up a palm and Mr. Foster slapped it.

  “Maybe she just hates men,” Jessica snapped before she could catch herself. “Plenty of women do.” An image of Jimmy standing with arms outstretched on stage in White Light Church reared its head in her mind’s eye. “Can you really blame us?” She knew immediately this was not her target audience, and both men shrugged noncommittally.

  “I guess not,” Mr. Foster said.

  “What’d I do, though?” Chris asked.

  The table fell silent and Jessica’s anger sizzled inside her. “Nothing, Chris. Don’t worry about it. I have to get up early tomorrow to work on a new recipe. We should probably get going.”

  “It was nice seeing you both,” Mr. Foster said hurriedly. His confusion was obvious, but he stood from the table and escorted them out of the bar.

  They said their goodbyes on the sidewalk, Chris shaking Brian’s hand again and Jessica giving him an awkward one-arm hug with plenty of air between their bodies. “Let’s get lunch sometime,” he said to them.

  Chris nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, that would be—”

  Whatever it would be went unsaid, though, as shouting from down the sidewalk interrupted their conversation. Though Chris instinctively sidestepped in front of Jessica, she was still able to see the scene unfold when she leaned slightly to the right.

  “You gonna fuck every dick who looks at you?” a bulky man with a shaved head shouted.

  A woman was pinned between him and the wall of Grease Trough. “No, Brock!” she sobbed. “I swear, nothing happened! He offered to buy me a drink—”

  “Because you fucked him, you whore?”

  “No!”

  “You did, didn’t you? You fucked him!” Brock punched the wall by her head.

  Chris grabbed Jessica and shoved her toward Mr. Foster before approaching the scene. “Hey! Dicklips!”

  Chris’s distraction worked insofar as giving the woman a moment to flee, but it quickly backfired when Brock reached in his belt and pulled out a gun, holding it out at Chris.

  “Holy shit,” Mr. Foster breathed behind her.

  “What’d you call me?” Brock might have been asking in a genuine way, having never heard that particular insult before, but Jessica suspected it was more in a rhetorical way, like how people use it to buy themselves time to think of something more threatening and cool to say.

  But Brock bought himself no time whatsoever. Because nobody was allowed to point a gun at God’s daughter’s boyfriend. Not even Brock Dicklips.

  Jessica’s instincts took over, and she didn’t try to fight them. She was going to smite the everliving shit out of this guy and love every—

  Nope, shouldn’t do that.

  Her conscience interceded at the last moment before the energy tugged free of her fingertips, and she aimed at the next best thing.

  The fire hydrant to Brock’s right exploded.

  A piece of shrapnel flew right into Brock’s wrist, causing him to drop the weapon and yelp as the geyser shot into the sky, drawing the attention to the spot outside Grease Trough. Jessica didn’t miss a beat and lunged forward, grabbing Chris by the arm with one hand, Mr. Foster with her other, leading them away from the scene at a dead sprint.

  Once they were safely down the block and out of sight of the Grease Trough, Mr. Foster braced his hands on his thighs, catching his breath from the excitement. “Talk about good timing with the hydrant.”

  Chris and Jessica exchanged a look. Mr. Foster still wasn’t convinced, huh?

  Chris slapped a shaky hand between Mr. Foster’s shoulder blades. “I get it. I didn’t believe it the first time I saw a smiting, either.” He nodded at Jessica. “But it’s arousing every time.”

  Jessica cringed. “Ew. You were five when you first saw it.”

  Chris smirked unapologetically. “I was an early bloomer.”

  “We should call the cops,” Mr. Foster said. “Right? That’s what people do when they have guns pulled on them?”

  Chris ran a large hand over his face. “I guess so. I’ve never had someone do that before.”

  As Jessica pulled her phone from her back pocket, Mr. Foster straightened up, looking down the street where they’d come from. “Me neither. I can’t believe that just happened. Austin is such a safe city.”

  When the operator answered, Jessica began to panic. Would she have to give her name? Would the media be able to find out about this? What would Wendy say? She should’ve called Wendy first.

  Shitballs.

  She shoved the phone to Chris. “You talk. Don’t use my name,” she hissed.

  It wasn’t until later, after they heard the sirens approaching and after Chris and Mr. Foster spoke with the cops while Jessica hid inside Chris’s truck and after Chris insisted he was sober enough to drive and Jessica was fine with playing along if it meant they could get home and start to forget all about the altercation, that she realized what her panic actually implied: Wendy Peterman scared her more than a skinhead with a gun.

  Chapter Six

  “I bet y’all had some freaky dream sex after that,” Quentin said.

  He was parked on a stool by the kitchen island of his and Miranda’s massive penthouse condo, having so selflessly offered to be a taste tester for Jessica’s latest patisserie experiments.

  The condo was spacious but cozier than Jessica’s, with warm colors, no harsh overhead fluorescents—the natural light streaming in was plenty—and more personal touches than Jessica had bothered with in hers, which just meant there were personal touches. Jessica had even made the cut in said personal touches, and photos of their high school and college days were framed and sprinkled thoughtfully on the wall around the TV.

  “No freakier than usual,” Jessica said. “But you’ll have to talk to him about that.”

  “I’d rather talk to you about it, honestly,” Quentin said. “God love that man, but when Chris starts talking about your dream sex, he always asks, ‘Isn’t that hot?’ and when I politely agree, he tells me to back off. No winning that game.”

  Jessica leaned down to peer through the glass window of the oven. The croissants still needed a few minutes to brown, but they were coming along better than the batch she’d made two days ago—which had turned into crescent bricks—and, fingers-crossed, these wouldn’t explode when she miracled them, like yesterday’s had. “Sounds like he’s never gotten over that fake love af
fair we had.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I wish Quentin and I could have dream sex,” Miranda said from the daybed in the adjoining breakfast nook, where she scrolled aimlessly through her Twitter feed on a tablet propped up on her knees. She turned to her boyfriend. “Not that regular sex isn’t great, but what idiot would turn down better sex? Plus, I wouldn’t mind making the Avengers watch.”

  “Justice League,” both Jessica and Quentin corrected.

  “Ah,” Jessica said, “I guess he told you about that one, too.”

  Quentin didn’t bother looking properly ashamed. “And clearly you told Miranda.”

  “Obviously.” As she searched around for where she’d set down the oven mitts, she added, “I bet you could make dream sex happen if you tried.”

  Quentin replied curtly with, “I don’t know why you would say that.”

  “Because it’s an an—” She turned and spotted Quentin’s serious expression just in time to stop herself before she accidentally outed him. Horror at how close she’d come to bringing the night to an abrupt and unhappy end boiled up her esophagus, and she fought to keep the emotion from her face. “It’s just a matter of you really giving it your all. I guess.”

  “Trust me,” Miranda said, still absorbed in her scree, blissfully ignorant of the close call, “if Quentin tried any harder, I might not survive it.”

  Quentin’s shoulders softened, and Jessica grabbed the oven mitt and pulled out the croissants to cool.

  “You know, Jess,” Miranda said, “I’m super impressed how quickly you’ve gotten going on this bakery thing. Sure, it took a little urging from Jesus, but you’re doing it. And it’s only been a handful of months since you decided this was what you were going to do. Most businesses take way longer to get started.”

  “When can I taste test?” Quentin interrupted.

  “Cool your jets,” Jessica said. “I haven’t even miracled this shit yet.”

  While Jessica’s condo had a nice kitchen, Quentin and Miranda’s was superior by a long shot. She often wondered how much Quentin was making at his new job, but she knew better than to ask, concluding it was somewhere between a lot and a shit ton.

  While she used their incredible kitchen as her excuse for the occasional visits, she was pretty sure all parties involved knew her real reason for coming over was the company. With Chris still living in San Marcos and training five days a week on top of taking a couple summer school classes, her life had become much more solitary than she liked.

  Which was a surprise. After so many years of wishing everyone would just leave her alone, she realized being left completely alone wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Holding her hands over the heat of the pastries, she cleared her mind and let the miracle work through her.

  Not only did the croissants refrain from exploding this time, but she was getting better at the superficial element of her miracle. Some of her images even had the hair curled. Maybe I can do this. Maybe opening this bakery won’t be the huge disaster I and everyone else expect it to be.

  “Damn, Jess,” said Quentin, “if you don’t stop teasing me with that smell, I’m gonna have to ban you from using the kitchen.”

  “Like I’d let you do that,” Miranda said, standing and walking over. “But seriously, when do we get to eat?”

  Jessica hurriedly moved each croissant to the plate then brought it over, plopping it down on the island in front of Quentin. “Bon appetit.”

  They each grabbed one and took a large bite as Jessica watched closely for their initial reactions. Did they like it?

  Neither was giving any obvious signs, though. “You know, if you’re going to eat of my body,” she said, “you should at least compliment the cook.”

  Quentin was the first to stop chewing and spit out his mushy lump, but Miranda was quick to follow. “I swear to your father, Jessica,” Quentin said, gagging, “if you ever refer to something I’m eating as your body, I’ll—”

  “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it literally, though. Geez.”

  “Still,” Miranda said, “maybe stay away from that in your branding. You’ll definitely attract the wrong people with it.”

  “Ah, true.” She nodded. “Cannibals?”

  “I was thinking lapsed Catholics. But yeah, maybe cannibals, too.”

  “Noted.”

  As Quentin hesitantly nibbled at his croissant, Jessica’s phone vibrated in her back pocket. She wiped the crumbs from her hands on a crumpled-up paper towel then slipped the phone from her pocket and opened the push notification for a new email. It was from the credit union, with the subject line, Regarding Your Loan Application.

  Wow, they’d moved her paperwork through faster than she’d expected. Blanche had forecasted close to four weeks, three if they were feeling feisty, but it’d hardly been a week and a half. It was like as soon as she set her mind on actually getting things done, once she’d broken through that mental wall, everything fell into place for her.

  She opened the email.

  Ms. McCloud,

  * * *

  We are sorry to inform you that your lack of credit history does not provide the assurance we need to offer you the requested loan at this time. However, building a high credit score will increase your chances of being approved in the future. For tips on how to get started building your credit, please see the links included at the bottom of this email.

  * * *

  Again, thank you for your interest, and we apologize for being unable to offer you financial assistance at this time.

  She read the email again but stopped after the first paragraph as a sharp pain radiated behind her eyes and a dull ringing in her ears caused her stomach to churn.

  She’d thought it was a done deal. That BDSM psychopath Blanche had assured her she could get the loan. Dr. Bell said the business plan was airtight. The man at the credit union seemed so impressed. What the hell happened?

  Maybe God’s backing didn’t actually matter in the financial world.

  Godless bastards!

  Although she supposed she’d never officially gotten word from Him that He would insure the loan personally. But still.

  Dammit!

  “I’m going to eat so many of these when you open shop,” Quentin said around a mouthful of croissant.

  She looked at Quentin then Miranda and forced a weak smile. “Hey, sorry to leave you with the dishes, but I suddenly don’t feel well. I need to head home. Like, now.”

  Miranda paused in her chewing, tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrow slits. “That was sudden. You gonna make it back okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I just gotta go now.”

  “This shits?” Quentin asked sympathetically. “You can just use Miranda’s bathroom if it’s the shits.”

  “It’s not the shits.” Jessica grabbed her purse. “Sorry. I’ll talk to y’all later.”

  She hurried out the door and made it down the elevator and out onto the street before the first hot tear shook loose from her eyes.

  “Help a man out?”

  She reached in her purse, pulled out a few pennies, and chucked them at the homeless man without looking then slipped on her sunglasses. She needed to get off the streets. Anyone could snap a photo of her crying, and while the shades would cover the initial redness, she had a feeling something much bigger was on its way, something that she would need a ski mask or maybe a burka to hide.

  She considered calling Chris to vent but found she had no desire to talk to him about this. Not yet. His disappointment would be too much to bear on top of her own. Or worse yet, he would manage to be optimistic, and there was no place in her life for that at present.

  She went through the list of her go-to contacts. Obviously not Quentin or Miranda. That would mean outing her excuse to leave as a lie. Wendy would show no sympathy, which was almost appealing, except her response would undoubtedly be served with a side of why-are-you-calling-me-about-this? and of-course-you-didn’t-get-the-loan-if-
you-have-no-credit-history. Not only would Dr. Bell be disappointed, she would feel like a failure, and Jessica wasn’t looking to pass along blame to someone who had done so much to help. Destinee was a no-go, too. She would ask for the names of the creditors and not stop until Jessica had ratted them out. Maybe Kate or Judith? She hadn’t exactly kept in close contact with them over the past couple months like she’d promised she would, and dumping bad news on them didn’t seem like a good way to break the silence.

  Mrs. Thomas would understand. She’d probably say exactly what Jessica needed to hear to start feeling better, too—she always did. But the span since they’d last spoken was even more embarrassing and shameful than that of Judith and Kate, and Jessica carried too much guilt about it, feeling like in some ways she’d replaced Mrs. Thomas with Dr. Bell. And who did that? Who just replaced mentors like that?

  That left her with no one. Or at least no one who would listen and understand and not be too preoccupied with wondering, Why is she telling me this? Doesn’t she have any close friends?

  Then it clicked. When people can’t bear to talk to anyone in particular about what’s on their mind, where do they turn? How do they vent?

  She pulled out her phone, opening up Twitter. She wanted to talk to somebody but also nobody, which was exactly what Twitter was good for. Plus, Wendy had told her to tweet more.

  Bad news. Bakery plans uncertain. Need to find the money somehow. Disappointed.

  Even when something seems certain, it’s not. Sad.

  Credit is a rigged system. You have to be dependent on it before they’ll let you become more dependent on it and then your reward is (1/2)

  (2/2) to be offered even more possible dependency. You feel like you’re winning only when you’re losing. NOT COOL.

  She jammed her phone back into her purse, having defused her anger and frustration temporarily.

  YOU CAN JUST ASK, AND THE LORD SHALL PROVIDE.