Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

  Embarrassed and humiliated, I refuse to sink lower by chasing after him. Instead, I turn on my heels, rejected, and shuffle back to my dorm.

  Bridgette has returned from her volunteer post, and is wildly shoving things into her duffel bag. Upbeat Christian music praising Jesus and good life and relationships is blaring through tiny speakers on Eden’s desk. She has a hairbrush in her hand and is singing along with the high-pitched songstress on the computer, and matching quite well. As soon as Eden’s eyes land on me, she races to her computer, turning the music off. This gets Bridgette’s attention, whose eyes widen after she assesses me.

  “What’s wrong?” Bridgette says, sounding horrified. I must look especially pathetic.

  My chin quivers as I plunk into my desk chair. “Matt doesn’t want to date me. He just wants to be my friend, apparently.”

  I say it as if I’ve told them everything. As if they know the feelings I have for him. But they don’t. I’ve been so guarded about certain parts of my life, even through trying to be more open. Because of that, there’s going to be a lot of catching up I’m going to have to do with them.

  “What?” Eden asks, handing me a tissue before the first tear even fully leaves my eyes. She’s good.

  I allow myself to fully sink into girly-mode for this one. It hurts. Dabbing the warm tear from my right eye, I sniff. “I asked him to date me, and he said no. Then he walked away. Like a jerk cowboy riding his jerk horse into the crappy sunset. Is it because I’m the one who asked?” I look to my roommates who are far more knowledgeable about Christian dating than I am.

  Eden chuckles, trying to cover it up with a cough. “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe?” Bridgette shrugged. “That doesn’t seem like Matt, though, does it? I don’t really know him. I didn’t know you liked him.”

  Eden rolls her eyes. “Come on Bridgette, yes you did. They’re next to each other so much, I bet people who don’t know who either of them are assume they’re together.”

  Sitting forward, I crack a smile. “Really? Is it obvious? I didn’t think it would be … we don’t, like, flirt flirt.”

  Eden arches an eyebrow. “Yes you do.”

  “We do? Well it’s not been any flirting like I’m used to.” My words sink in a bit.

  “See? That’s just it. Over here in Christian-landia, we might not be as graphic as some of your high school friends, but we know the art of flirting. And, Matt has been relentless.”

  I break into laughter at Eden’s self-deprecating term for where she’s from, and even Bridgette laughs, before adding her own two cents. “Yeah,” she agrees. “The way he always looks at you, I just assumed he’d asked you out and you had turned him down. That’s why I thought you didn’t like him that way.”

  “Well now what do I do?” I prop my chin up on my hands, resting my elbows on the desk.

  My two roommates look at each other, having one of their many silent conversations. I hope to get in on those at some point.

  “Hello?” I wave my hand when they’ve been silent. “Is this something we pray about, or something?”

  Bridgette laughs. “If you want to. But, honestly, I think you should just let it go for a while. You’ve been through a lot lately, and you’ve mentioned you think there’s cruddy stuff going on at home with Matt. Maybe he really does just need a friend right now?”

  I huff, hating that she’s right. Which makes me feel worse, since I tried to force the poor kid to go out with me.

  “It’s all right,” Eden tries to be reassuring, rubbing my shoulder. “You guys will have a couple of weeks to kind of forget about this before you see him in Georgia.”

  “Oh man! I forgot about that.” I thump my head onto the desk. “I was hoping I’d have six weeks to forget about it,” I say to the wood.

  “Well,” Eden’s tone perks up. “If you want to chicken out when the time comes, just call me and we’ll figure out a way to have you stay with me while Roland goes to Georgia.”

  Standing, I close my suitcase and unplug my phone charger from the wall. “Eden, I might just take you up on that. Okay, girls. I’m off for the most bizarre six-week journey of my life. Pray for me that I come back in one piece.”

  Bridgette gives me a quick, but tight hug. “I’m sure it’ll be nothing compared to what you’ve already been through this semester. You’re tough. I’m proud of you, Kennedy.”

  Oddly enough, her overly-positive attitude is quite calming at the moment.

  “Yes,” Eden adds. “I actually can’t wait for you to come to my house so I can show you off to all my friends. They keep asking about you.”

  “Come on, Eden, really? You want to take me around like some moderately famous sideshow?”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “Not because of Roland, Captain Paranoia. Because I’ve told them how fierce you are. Determined. Focused. Yeah, they know about Roland. But, how you carry yourself in spite of that is what has my friends interested. They think you’re cool. Because I do.”

  I hold out my arm, welcoming Eden into a group hug. “I love you girls,” I whisper.

  Because, oddly enough, I really do. Almost four months in a ten-by-twelve room with two girls who scared me to death the first time I met them has changed me. Not just my attitude toward them, but to the others like them I see around campus. Slowly, my assumptions are leaning toward how my roommates are, not the horror-story version I concocted before ever setting foot on campus.

  “Love you, too,” Eden replies softly.

  “Me, too,” Bridgette adds.

  We hug for a few seconds more before each going our own ways for the next six weeks.

  Six whole weeks. With Roland.

  God, I know I haven’t fully checked in lately, but … just … do what you’re gonna do here, but return me in one piece, okay?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Anything Could Happen

  Roland.

  Villa Hills.

  Crossing over the town line, my eyes drift to Kennedy, who’s had her head against the window, sleeping for the last two hours. We weren’t up too late last night, but I suspect that finals being over, as well as the emotions surrounding this visit have caught up with her.

  “Hey,” I whisper, tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

  She startles easily, something she warned me about last night. She told me to be loud coming up the stairs if I needed her for something, because she hates being caught off guard.

  I can appreciate that.

  “What?” She sits up, rubbing her eyes, then looking at her hands before flipping down the visor to look at herself in the mirror. “Phew,” she says like she’s talking to no one in particular. “I thought I had mascara on.”

  I chuckle, appreciating the few unguarded seconds I have with her before she’s fully awake. “We’re going to be there in ten minutes. I wanted you to have some time …” I trail off, not knowing how to finish that sentence, but knowing she wouldn’t want to wake up in the driveway of a house she’s never been to, and likely thought she’d never visit.

  She leans over, pulling a small, zippered bag from her backpack. My focus is on the road, slowly navigating the streets of my parents’ town, but from the corner of my eye I can see she’s putting on makeup. I don’t officially know what that means, but I take it at as a good sign that she seems to care about her appearance.

  After a few minutes, Kennedy shoves the small bag back into her backpack and runs her hands through her hair a few times before flipping the visor back up and settling back into her seat.

  “Nora and Tim, right?” she asks, her eyes forward.

  I nod. She’s asked me their names a few times throughout the semester. Taking a deep breath, I think back to my conversations with my parents over the last couple of weeks. They’ve held onto cautious optimism, hoping something wouldn’t come up to prevent meeting Kennedy.

  They didn’t know she existed while growing inside her mother. They didn’t know about her until sometime during h
er second year of life when I was on another bender. I wasn’t sure of Kennedy’s birthday at the time, but I was smart enough to do the math.

  Of course they were heartbroken to learn of a child they’d never get to know. For a while they tried to get me to go to court to have my parental rights reinstated, but the longer I stayed married to the bottle, the more they left it alone. The more they let Kennedy slip from their hopes and recognize that Wendy and her family were the only choice to raise her. They didn’t try to get involved with her when they saw how much help I needed to manage my own life. They took care of me, and let God take care of the rest.

  It took me ten years to show them the picture that was mailed to me from Kennedy’s fifth birthday. It was what had turned me around, after all, but back then I hadn’t wanted them to know that. I didn’t need them to keep bringing her up if and when I screwed up. Kennedy’s smile and blissful ignorance of her piss-eyed father slithering through the streets of Northern Kentucky was the only motivation I needed. Not the most gorgeous or polite imagery, I realize.

  But the truth rarely is.

  “Here we are,” I say with a deep breath, turning into the short driveway of my parents’ modest home.

  “It’s pretty,” Kennedy half-whispers, assessing the wide front lawn and tidy shrubbery around the front stairs.

  The two-story four-bedroom structure is plenty more than two aging people in need of various body-part replacements need, but its almost cramped around the holidays when their three children and six grandchildren come visit. Seven, now. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way.

  She’s really coming, right? She’s in the car with you?

  That text rolled in around noon today, shortly after Kennedy and I stopped for lunch. I can’t help but feel this cautionary excitement has less to do with Kennedy and more to do with their perception of my ability to develop a relationship with the daughter I abandoned.

  You didn’t abandon her; you gave her a life by walking away. You know that.

  “You good?”

  Kennedy’s words bring me back, and I realize we’ve been idling in the driveway for roughly a minute. With a confident nod, I kill the engine and retrieve our bags from the trunk, though Kennedy insists on carrying hers.

  “It’s just a bag. I can manage.” Her dry sarcasm has a hint of hesitation around me.

  I’ve heard her in action a time or two with her friends before she knew I was standing nearby. She’s a natural around people, captivating them with each word she speaks. It’s not just the CU set, either—I saw it when she was in high school, too.

  Well, she’s got your charisma.

  Wendy admitted that in a defeatist tone shortly before Kennedy’s high school graduation. She’s always viewed her interpretation of my charisma as a defect, while I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to turn it into a strength. I don’t know if there will ever be a final verdict from where I stand, but given the proper grooming, I’m sure Kennedy can make fine use of it.

  Ascending the steps ahead of Kennedy, I place my hand on the doorknob and cast a soft glance her way. “I know it seemed like you didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, but I’m really happy you’re here right now.”

  She nods, a tight smile appearing on her lips while her eyes widen. She’s nervous to meet this branch of her family she’s never known. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to back my way out of having her spend so much time around people who know every ugly detail about me.

  Here goes nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Healing Begins

  Kennedy.

  “Mom? Dad?” Roland calls, opening the door slowly, as if to give one of us more time before it all becomes real.

  I slept for most of the ride down here, then pretended to sleep for another half hour. I was thinking, and I didn’t want him watching me think. The last few text message exchanges with my mother left me grateful to be here, in Villa—freaking—Hills, Kentucky, more than a thousand miles away from her.

  You can think better than that on your feet, Kennedy, why say you were going to Roland’s? Didn’t you think they’d eat that right up? Why you’re doing this, for the life of me, I don’t know. Maybe you really wanted to go there after all, so you created this situation to serve your interests.

  Perhaps.

  Of course, her final text reassured me she loved me, and didn’t really think any of those things she said. I told her it was all fine, and not to worry. We both lied, but history promises we’ll both be long over it before our tempers cross paths again. That’s the thing about quick-tempered people—they typically don’t hold a grudge. Can’t, rather, or they’d run out of allies quickly.

  My throat runs dry listening to the footsteps approaching us. Maybe we should have FaceTimed before this so it wouldn’t feel so blind date-like.

  “Roland?” Nora, I assume, calls. Her voice moving closer. There are heavier, slower steps behind her. A silent Tim.

  In a few short seconds, a long, lean-ish woman stands in front of me. Eyes identical to Roland’s—and mine, with sandy hair giving way to frosty white. I’ve seen her picture plenty of times at Roland’s place, but in the flesh her presence is even bigger than I imagined. If charisma is genetic, he got his from her.

  After she hugs Roland, she steps aside and lets Tim in for a manly handshake-hug combo that always cracks me up among men. He’s shorter than Roland and, unless Nora is wearing heels, he’s about an inch shorter than she is.

  Yep, he’s shorter. She’s wearing adorable suede moccasins that look incredibly comfortable.

  And, here’s the awkward silence. Fidgeting, seemingly unable to decide where to put their hands, or their eyes, Tim and Nora look at Roland, then over to me. Nora’s eyes settle into mine and make a home there, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m going to fight, flee, or stay.

  I’m wondering the same thing.

  Looking at her, I see the woman who raised the now-amazing man next to me. The woman who took him back into her home despite his transgressions against nearly everyone he came in contact with for the better part of a decade. I see love as I stare into Nora Abbot’s eyes. A mother’s love. I recognize her, somehow. In the eyes, for sure, but there’s more. Something so much more there that it startles me for a moment while I decide what to do with it.

  Being the eighteen-year-old I am, I wave first.

  “Hi,” I whisper, then clear my throat to avoid sounding like a shy toddler. “I’m Kennedy.” Stating the obvious somehow makes me feel better. Or, the exercise of stating my name serves to remind me that I’m really standing here and haven’t yet gone insane.

  “I’m Nora.” Her shaky voice gives way to her glistening grey eyes. “It’s so nice to meet you, Kennedy.”

  Her emphasis chokes me up, causing me to drop my bag and take the three steps toward her that now seem like too much distance, and wrap my arms around her. I’m hugging this non-stranger. She doesn’t feel foreign to me. Even as her arms freeze before she settles into the hug, it all feels right, and I’m wishing I met Nora Abbot a long time ago. Inexplicably, I feel like I already have.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.” Stepping back, I offer Tim a hug as well. He’s much more rigid in this interaction than his wife, but hugs me just the same.

  “Oh look at us,” Nora says, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Standing around here like a couple of weeping willows. Let’s get you settled into your rooms, huh?”

  I follow Nora up the stairs since she’s already carrying my bag. Looking back over my shoulder, I see Roland wipe the back of his hand over his eyes before following his dad into the kitchen, his arm wrapped around his shorter father.

  I feel at home here in this house I’ve never been to, in a state I never thought I’d travel to. It’s Nora. I know it is. I feel the same pull toward her that I felt toward my RA, Maggie, when we first met.

  Keep your eyes and ears open around this one. And your heart, while you’re at it.

>   “Here we are.” Nora opens a door and sets my bag on a bed neatly made with pale yellow sheets and a matching thick comforter folded at the foot of the bed. “Bathroom is at the other end of the hall. You’ll have the room to yourself for the next couple of days, and then once Julia and Geoff get here with their kids, we’ll figure everything out.”

  My instinct to panic and/or protest is snuffed out in Nora’s presence. I simply offer a polite smile and tell her I’ll be down to join the rest of them in a moment. I need to call my mom. Her eyes stay on me a moment, as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear into thin air. Soon enough, she reaches forward, gently grabs my hand—giving it a squeeze—and leaves the room. It doesn’t feel like she leaves completely, though. Kind of like Roland, I guess, where his presence hangs out long after he’s gone. Matt says the same thing about me sometimes, though I don’t have the energy to dig into all of the comparisons.

  Speaking of Matt.

  In favor of not ruining my current emotional high by calling my mother, who will undoubtedly shi—crap—all over it, even if she doesn’t mean to, I dial Matt’s number.

  “Hello?” he says, like he doesn’t have caller ID. I like that.

  I plunk down on the bed, kicking off my shoes before stretching out on the comfortable mattress. “Hey. You home?”

  “Yep. You? Oh … wait … sorry.”

  I wave my hand as if he’s there. “Eh, it’s fine. But, yeah, we just got here a few minutes ago.”

  “Was it weird?”

  You mean like me and you? What with you rejecting me and all?

  “Not as weird as this conversation.” I decide to let it all hang out since we have a couple of states between us. I think. I need a map.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles, sounding frighteningly un-Matt like. Despite our weirdness as of late.

  Pushing aside my feelings of rejection that are sure to linger for the rest of my life, I sigh and sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. “You don’t want to be home, do you?” It’s not technically a question since the answer is so obvious.