The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3)

by Andrea Randall

  “Not pregnant, thanks to my birth control pills,” she says with just a hint of contempt in her voice.

  I nod, slowly, praying for my sandwich to be done any second. “Good… I guess. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Riley,” she answers and, for some reason, it surprises me that she extends her hand to shake mine.

  I take it and give her a warm smile. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Riley.”

  “You too, Kennedy.”

  We stand in awkward silence for a few seconds, but my sandwich is ready before I know it.

  “Thanks,” I say before turning around and making a home in the booth furthest from the counter in the darkest, most-ignored corner of the cafe.

  During my time at the temple, I researched a lot of different online Bible studies. I completed a few short ones that gave me a good overview of the gospels that I felt I was lacking, along with some of the smaller books in the Bible that I’ve found quite interesting. I don’t have fully formed opinions on why I find certain things interesting… I just do. I pull out my journal and Bible to continue in the study I’ve been working on this week and take a deep breath. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Matt, or this reality show thing, or any of it. But for now I have a meditative focus on God’s word, and I can handle that.

  My respite in spiritual solitude is short-lived, however, when I spot Roland and Dean Hershel Baker, along with some other members of the faculty I only barely recognize, walk into the cafe. I shift my position slightly and slink down just far enough to hopefully remain being unseen while still being able to see them. I put in my earbuds, open my laptop to join the “apple orchard,” and set my journal and Bible to the side. This way I can better conceal my staring. Hopefully.

  Nobody seems to be smiling, which isn’t out of character for Dean Baker, but is very much so for my dad. He looks overly professional even in his current choice of a casual suit. It’s the coat, I think. Black, which he almost never wears. He never preaches with a suit coat on, and doesn’t even teach class in one as far as I know, but he’s in one right now. And a red silk tie against a shirt of the same color. I bet he’s dying of discomfort. The group of four men and two women sit at a round table not too far from the right of me. They choose a table behind me, which I’m grateful for as I casually knock out one of my earbuds to better eavesdrop.

  “Have you guys come up with the list of students you’re going to ask to participate in this documentary?” Roland’s sarcasm is quite evident as he says documentary. He’s no fool. Jesus Freaks will either be a completely boring watered-down version of CU as curated by the university to help their PR image, or it will be an absolute freak show as curated by the network. The network almost always wins.

  “We have,” a soft-spoken woman answers. “But you know as well as we do that our suggestions are next to no good if we can’t produce Kennedy.”

  Produce Kennedy? Like a dragon’s head on the sword of a prince?

  “I’ve told you over and over again that besides the many reasons for that not being a good idea in my opinion, I don’t think you’re going to get her to do it. She’s kind of had enough media attention for one lifetime.” Roland sounds bored, but my chest warms hearing him speak on my behalf. I bite my lower lip, enjoying the comfort of my lip ring—knowing in a few short weeks I’ll have to part with it yet again.

  Dean Baker slithers into the conversation. “That daughter of yours is going to have a lot more media attention than she ever bargained for, what with you as her father, and if she chooses to return to Carter. If Carter will have her back, that is.”

  I clench my teeth and roll my eyes at the same time. It’s a complicated set of emotions I hold for this pile of a man. He’s so icky it sends chills down my spine. And I don’t even know the basis for having such a feeling despite his having that creepy vibe about him that would beg me to cross the street if I saw him walking in my direction and I didn’t know him. Frankly, I’d probably do that anyway.

  “She is returning, isn’t she?” another gentleman asks. I don’t recognize his voice.

  “Folks,” Roland starts, sounding diplomatic, “I don’t know her definite plans. I do hope she chooses to finish what she started here at CU, but I also know her welcome at this university hasn’t been a warm one. I wouldn’t blame her if she chose to attend one of the several Ivy League schools vying for her attention.” I grin as he slightly overstates my prospects.

  “I think what Dean Baker is trying to say,” someone else chimes in, “is that the whole deal is more likely to go our way if Kennedy was involved. Perhaps you could… persuade her of the benefits of her involvement.”

  “Which for her would be…” Roland challenges, and I have to sit on my hands for a second to prevent myself from fist bumping the air.

  “An opportunity to present a unique side of Carter University,” the soft-spoken woman answers.

  Little does she know how right she could be, if editing weren’t involved. I’d love to be able to show the Carter I see, but I’m sure no one would go for that—Jesus Freak or otherwise.

  “Just please think it over, talk with Kennedy, and get back to us?” the other woman who I can’t see pleads. I make a mental note that no one was able to give Roland a single benefit to me for agreeing to join the show.

  Maybe it’s already been discussed? Is Roland holding out on me?

  The conversation shifts awkwardly to the nuts and bolts of logistics. Rules the school has, requirements NBC has based on wants and the needs surrounding the production of something of this nature. I’m perfectly still for several minutes, not wanting to miss a thing, and needing to remain hidden.

  The sound of chairs scratching against the floor clues me into the meeting’s abrupt end.

  “I will,” Roland concedes as everyone heads to the door. I can just make them out in my peripheral vision. Just before I’m about to turn around, though, I hear Roland continue his conversation with someone else. Someone who stuck around. “What are you after?” His tone is chillingly unlike him. Dark and commanding.

  The slithering voice returns. “We both know you’re going to have Kennedy on this show. It will benefit you both greatly.”

  “Baker, I don’t know what it is you think you have on me, but there’s nothing there. Not liking me isn’t enough. Especially not now. And, especially not if this show gets on the air. In general I’m pretty well liked, which is more than I can say for you. I’d think carefully about my demands if I were you.”

  My jaw slacks open as I hear what I assume is Roland give a firm pat on Dean Baker’s arm or shoulder before I watch him walk confidently out of the cafe with the dean following quite slowly behind. I crane my neck and see them take off in different directions. Roland in the direction of Word, and Dean Baker the exact opposite. I briefly wonder if Roland is trekking to Word to see if I’m still there talking with Asher, but I decide to just let all that I heard sink in. And I’m still kind of ticked at Asher anyway, so I won’t be galloping gleefully into Word again today.

  I’d think carefully about my demands if I were you…

  I knew Roland didn’t care for Dean Baker. Who does? But I’m oddly relieved to hear him speaking more like a human annoyed with something. I obviously never have had delusions of Roland being a white knight, all things considered, but I know and understand why he’s well-liked and respected. He’s real. And that’s what I respect most of all.

  Between Asher, Matt, and whatever that “think tank” meeting was, I shake my head and am determined to use the rest of my afternoon in quiet study time. Bible study. This is not something that ever interested me previous to my time at the Buddhist temple, but during the very long quiet hours there, I found solace in C.S. Lewis. From there, I began reading whatever I could get my hands on.

  The library at the temple did have a variety of books on many different religious traditions, Christianity included. Not many, but enough that it kept me busy for a while. I decided I
should turn to the Bible after I read a couple of books of opposing opinions. While I recognize that wars have been fought and countries created and destroyed over two people feeling they’re a hundred percent correct in their interpretation of the Bible, I figure I can at least take a stab at it even for the sake of intellectual exercise.

  I typically orient myself to face away from the door to avoid looking up each time the door opens, because I’ve always been insanely curious about people, which can be distracting. But I didn’t move after Roland left, which means that as soon as Matt walks into the cafe and looks directly at me, I’m looking right back at him.

  And there’s nowhere to hide this time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Please

  Matt

  She looks good. She seems a bit paler, and maybe a little thinner than usual, but she’s still her. All of her. No matter what she’s been through in the last couple of months, Kennedy’s retained all of her feisty personality, and maybe even become a little more of herself. It’s clear in her eyes and the way she flings her hair over her shoulder, looking down like she doesn’t care to talk to me. She probably doesn’t.

  I can’t go talk to her, what was I thinking? One swoop of my eyes from her long hair down her deep green sleeveless shirt and long, black skirt is enough to send my heart racing and my hands tingling.

  She’ll never talk to you. Not after all this time. Not after all you’ve done.

  I decide to go with humor as I shakily approach a startled-looking Kennedy in the farthest booth in the room. “Bible, journal, and highlighters? You’re really going for it, huh?”

  My poor attempt to break the ice falls flat. She simply looks back to her writing. I force my trembling hand to gesture to the seat across from her. “May I?”

  Kennedy’s wide eyes shoot up to mine. I don’t know what to expect, but she nods. So, I sit. She returns to whatever she’s doing, not giving me a second look. The tops of her cheeks are a little red, but other than that, I see no sign that she’s registered my presence. Or accepts it. All except for the silver ring on her lip that she sucks into her mouth. That’s my open window. Her anxious quirk.

  “Titus?” I remark, peering across the table into her Bible.

  “Looks that way,” she mumbles.

  “Why?” I don’t think I’ve ever been in such an awkward conversation in all my life, sexual counseling included. The back of my neck is on fire.

  Kennedy sighs, sets down her pen, and lowers the top of her laptop slightly. “What do you want, Matt?” Her disinterest is obvious in the crossing of her arms. I still take the time to admire her eyes. They’re always working on something. She quickly looks away, as if she’s somehow onto me.

  I shift in my seat and try to meet her gaze, but she’s clearly more interested in pretending to study the cheap Americana art above my head.

  Johnny’s Diner. An American institution since 1952. Grab a Coke!

  “I… I just want to talk to you.”

  At this, those eyes bore into me. “How does it feel?” she says just under her breath. I deserve it, but I’m not going to take total blame.

  “You disappeared for months,” I accuse, ignoring all the “I” statements my counselor tells me to use.

  “Oh please,” she spits back.

  Her face screws up in that way I recognize from what feels like a lifetime ago in the dining hall. Usually when someone talks about politics or how to be a submissive girlfriend and wife. Her eyebrows are scrunched, lips pursed, and nostrils slightly flared.

  “You knew exactly where I was,” she continues. “And, even if you didn’t, I’m sure Roland would have let you tag along in a second. Don’t you dare come here and guilt me for disappearing. You disappeared from me long before either of us actually went anywhere.”

  I hate how smart she is sometimes. I do. And I don’t mean book smart. I mean socially. Nothing gets past her. She’s much more socially aware than I am, and that intimidates me. So, I decide to cut through all the bull she’d call me on eventually anyway.

  Lowering my shoulders, I lean forward so she’s the only one who can hear me. “Kennedy,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  She gasps. “What? What did you just say?” she whispers back.

  I’ve been instructed to forgive those I feel that have done wrong to me, and I’m working on that. But I feel it in my bones that if I’m ever going to have a second shot in this life, I need to get this girl to forgive me. I go all in, reaching across the table and taking her hand, noting that her palms are as sweaty as mine.

  “Forgive me, two, three,” I say, slowly, giving her hand a squeeze, hoping that our inside joke about CU-approved hugs from millions of months ago appeals to her heart.

  I watch goosebumps crop up from her wrists to her shoulders and shoot across her chest. Moving my eyes to her face, I watch her chin quiver as her eyes fill with tears.

  “Please,” I beg, giving her hand another squeeze. “Please, I need you to forgive me, Kennedy. You’re the only person who ever believed in me to begin with. Please.” I hardly feel emasculated begging for her forgiveness. I need a friend. No, it’s so much more than that. I need her.

  She swallows hard, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as a few tears roll down her cheeks. After a few agonizing seconds, she looks at me, no longer working to conceal the tears washing her face. She shakes her hand free of mine and slides out of the booth, sending my heart into my throat.

  This is it, I fear. This is the absolute end of whatever we have. Forever.

  Standing in front of me, Kennedy reaches for my hand and gives it a tug, forcing me to slide out of the booth and stand, too, facing her.

  “Kennedy,” I say once more, knowing I’ve probably already run out of time with her. “Please.”

  Before I can say anything else, she wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her body tightly against mine as she rises onto her toes, and I feel her warm breath against my cheek.

  “I forgive you, two, three…” she whispers.

  And for the next few seconds, all is right in my world.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  New Folder

  Kennedy

  I don’t know how grace works. I’ve been reading about it all summer—studying it, really—but there are no definitive answers. It’s like asking someone to prove love. You just feel it. I feel it over Matt and me right now. He had the grace to forgive me enough to ask me to forgive him, and I accepted it. I don’t think I need much grace to hold him against me and hug the crap out of him, but I’ll take it anyway. I almost don’t want this hug to end, because I’m afraid it just might be a dream. One from which I never want to wake. One where Matt and I can pick up right where we left off.

  Alas, our hug is bordering on pornographic according to CU standards, and we both pull away after fifteen glorious seconds. The equivalent of five CU—approved hugs. We have a lot of catching up to do.

  “Sit,” I say, gesturing to the spot he stood from. “Just kidding.” I stop him and yank on his hand once more, pulling him into another hug.

  Two, three, four, five…

  I could stay here all day. I almost say that out loud, but instead I let us just sit, like normal people.

  “So,” I start, followed by a horrendously nervous laugh. “Sorry. Is this real? I don’t… what is this?” I ask, gesturing between us.

  He tilts his head to the side and I search his eyes for something cold. Something like the Matt I last saw months ago. But it’s not there. Sure, brokenness still flickers through, but I’m beginning to realize that it sits in all of us. The brokenness. None of us are completely whole, ever. And too many of us spend decades trying to fill those cracks and holes. Right now, I just see something like humility in his eyes. In the fertile soil of forgiveness that is their color.

  “Matt?” I ask, beginning to wonder if he’s going to disappear into a cloud of smoke like this has all been a dream.

  “Sorry,” he finally says, breaking into a grin.
“It’s real. Yes. I’m—”

  “Still angry at me for involving your dad, right?” I wonder if I should have said it at all, and risk destroying this reconciliation. But we have to talk about it, right?

  He bows his head for a second. “Kennedy…”

  I reach my hand across the table and set it on his folded hands. “I need to know where I went wrong. I don’t want to hurt you like this again, Matt.”

  “You can’t think that you did anything wrong. Do you think that?” His eyebrows are furrowed as he studies my face.

  I huff. “Of course I don’t think I did anything wrong,” I admit. “I was scared and you were just…”

  “A mess.”

  I sit back and start waving my hands in a way that would make my high school public speaking teacher cringe. “Listen. I come from a society where we dissect and discuss and resolve our feelings. And if they’re not resolved we talk, and talk, and talk some more. And if it’s still not resolved, someone sends us to therapy.”

  He nods. “Prayer, prayer, prayer, counseling, God, and prayer over here,” he says, pointing to himself.

  I twist my lips. “Maybe we could be renegades and decide to just put this behind us and move forward?”

  Relief washes over his face as his shoulders relax. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “But first,” he says, reaching across the table and extending his hand. I quickly set mine in his. “I need you to know that you did nothing wrong. You did everything right. It’s not your fault that I’m angry. It’s not your fault that I have issues with my dad, Kennedy. You were trying to be helpful. You were being a friend.” He gives my hand a squeeze and I wish we could sit like this forever, but he soon pulls back and folds his arms on the table in front of him.