by Piper Lennox
I dig out my keys. The car chirps and flashes like a beacon. I don’t move towards it right away, even though I know I should.
“I’ll call you,” I tell him, sliding the rest of the way outside. I lean down to look at him, and he raises his eyebrows. “To tell you about my test results?”
“Oh. Okay, uh...thanks.” It makes me wonder, briefly, what he thought I was talking about. I decide not to ask.
“And look, I know I’m not taking this well, but...but I am glad you told me. Thank you.”
Shepherd nods, one hand on the wheel, the other in a fist against the gearshift, cracking his thumb inside his fingers. I’ve noticed it’s a nervous habit of his. He did it a lot, when we were on the road.
“No problem,” he says. He cuts his eyes at me. “Goodnight, Lila.”
“’Night, Shepherd.” I close the door and walk to my car, trying not to care that he starts backing up before I’ve even gotten inside.
At the parking deck’s entrance, I hear him pause longer than he needs to. It’s not much—but it’s enough to make me turn and squint through the darkness at his taillights, wondering if he’ll reverse.
No, I realize: I didn’t close my door hard enough. I hear him fix it, just a single and solid slam, before he revs out onto the street. He grinds the gears as he goes, leaving me with nothing but an echo.
Twenty-Five
Shepherd
“You sure?” Dad asks again, for the tenth time today. “It’ll be a good one.”
And, for the tenth time, I shake my head and tell him thanks, anyway. “It’s not that I think it’ll be boring, or whatever,” I add, accepting another pancake from Mom, even though I’m not hungry. “I just...haven’t been to church in a while. I’d feel out of place.”
“Your meetings are in a church, aren’t they?” Mom pipes up from the coffee pot.
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m attending the church. And the chapter I belong to isn’t that spiritual.” I turn back to Dad. “I still believe in God, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Well, not now,” he says, smirking at his paper.
It’s been easier, the more time I spend with them, to fold myself into our old dynamic, before I ever met my old crowd or Jess, before I’d touched a single drug stronger than weed. This time, actually, it’s better: Dad has finally seemed to give up his obsession with me following in his footsteps.
I know it bothers them I don’t attend anymore, though. That was obvious as soon as Mom invited me to this giant breakfast. Historically, Sunday mornings around here involve a quick cup of coffee, maybe some toast, before rushing off to church just as most of Indiana is opening its eyes.
“How’s work going?” Mom refills my coffee. “We haven’t seen you as much these last couple weeks.”
“It’s good. I was worried I wouldn’t get more hours until springtime, but my boss has been throwing me some indoor projects. Yesterday I got to install some tile.”
“On-the-job training,” Dad comments. “Not bad.” He peers at me over the rim of his reading glasses and folds up the paper. “And, uh...your boss knows about your record?”
Like much of what my father says, this remark hits me the wrong way, at first. I think back to my therapy at rehab, and my aftercare sessions in the months that followed: “Don’t be so quick to react.”
Instead of taking his question as an insult, I turn it over in my brain for a second. I study his face. From what I can tell, he’s just asking—no ulterior motive. He’s curious. He cares.
“Yeah, he knows. One of the contractors has a felony on his record, too.” When I applied to be a construction assistant, I tried a different approach than any application I’d turned in before: instead of hiding my past, letting the employer find it during a background check, I mentioned it right away. My boss admired the honesty, and that was that. For the first time in over a year, I’ve got a steady job. It feels better than I thought it would—like I’m finally getting my life back.
Dad gets up and grabs his suit jacket from the back of his chair. “Last chance,” he says, as all of us head to the front door. They haven’t said it out loud, but I know they still don’t trust me in the house without them here. It hurts, but it’s fair. My mistakes won’t heal overnight.
“Thanks,” I say again, “but I should get home. In case Tillie needs her car.” If I get back now, I can ensure Tillie drives to meet Lila for their usual Sunday brunch, instead of Lila picking her up.
It sounds paranoid, but it’s really more of a courtesy: for the last month, I’ve been avoiding Lila as best I can, and she’s done the same.
I’m halfway out of my parents’ neighborhood when I second-guess myself.
It’s early. I have time.
I circle the block of the church twice before I park. I haven’t been here in years. A new wing was added at some point, its paint still fresh and clean, blinding me the longer I stare.
I don’t get out yet. Instead, I watch the families mill past in their wool or down coats, kids dragging their boots through the last dregs of snow on the grass.
Is it just guilt? Mom looked so hurt when I told her I felt out of place here. Maybe I want to show them I’ve changed even more than they think. I can be trustworthy.
I can’t name it. Whatever pushed me into this parking lot today…it has no explanation. I feel like I’m supposed to be here. Still out of place—but belonging, because of precisely that.
The service is halfway over when I finally bring myself to go inside. I sit in the pew at the back, a man with a nasty cough at the other end.
I block him out and concentrate on my dad’s voice.
“...times God tells us to just be still,” he’s saying, “and those moments are important, don’t get me wrong. I think we can all agree a time-out, where we just shut up and listen, is a very good thing.”
Around me, the chapel relaxes with laughter.
“But there are also times,” Dad goes on, “when God calls us to action. James, 4:14.” He pauses so people can find the verse. The rustle of paper fills the air, those tissue-thin Bible pages fluttering and crinkling, like a hundred tiny birds.
“‘Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.’” He looks up, smiling. “Sounds a lot better than ‘YOLO,’ doesn’t it?”
Another wave of laughter ripples across the pews. I’d forgotten how much people enjoyed Dad’s sermons; I was too busy hating them. Hating him. Now, I watch the backs and sides of strangers’ heads, many of them hanging on his every word.
More than any other reason, this was why I fought his expectations of me so much. I could never reach people the way he did. I couldn’t make them laugh, or teach them in ways they’d understand and carry with them. So I turned myself into someone who could never lead. The prodigal son. The lost sheep.
Strangely enough, though, I find something comforting in the verse he just read. You do not even know what will happen.
“As Christians,” Dad explains, pacing out from behind the lectern, “we tend to think God doesn’t want us taking risks, because risks are bad, right?” He pauses, smiling as a few people agree. “I’ll let you in on a secret: risks can be good. They can be great. When you take a risk you’re meant to take, something God is truly calling you to do, He will make sure that risk pays off.
“Of course, that’s not to say you won’t fail. You might. You could fall flat on your face, and wonder why on earth God called you to do something if you weren’t going to succeed at it.”
The guy near me coughs again. I sit up, draping my arms over the back of the pew in front of me, and strain to listen.
“But notice I didn’t say, ‘He’ll make sure you succeed.’ I said, ‘He’ll make sure it pays off.’ Meaning, whatever the outcome of a risk God calls you to take, He’ll work it into His perfect plan for your life. He’ll make sure you learn, that you grow. In fact, He does that for a
ll our failures—even the things we weren’t called to do. As long as we let Him.” Dad sweeps his gaze across the crowd, gauging everyone’s reaction. When he spots me, he does a double take. Then, he smiles again.
“Because the truth is, folks,” he says, still looking at me, “everyone makes mistakes. Sometimes it’s because we focused on what we wanted, not what God wanted. And other times, it’s because we were too scared to take that risk He told us to take, and the opportunity passed.”
He gets quiet for a moment, finally taking his eyes off me and redirecting them at the crowd. “So how do we know the difference, then, between foolish mistakes and destined risks?”
People shift in their seats. A few mumble, but no one speaks up. As always, everyone waits for what he has to say.
“It’s in those moments of stillness,” he says. “It’s in those times of sitting alone, being quiet, and just listening for the answer.” He goes back to the podium. “Let’s close with a prayer.”
I bow my head, but keep my eyes open. As soon as everyone’s said amen, I get up and slip through the same door where I entered.
When I pull the car onto the main road, I can see my parents in front of the chapel. They shake hands and smile at the crowd. They thank him for his sermon. His teachings.
The side street I pull off to is deserted. The wind rocks the car as I cut the engine, dried leaves kicking up around the glass.
Eventually, it dies down. I’m left to sit in the silence, waiting. For what, I’m not sure—until something makes me start the car again, headed for another place I didn’t think I’d go today.
Lila
“Hey, boss!”
I look up as Sienna slaps her hand against the register I’ve been trying to unfreeze for the better part of twenty minutes. “Somebody’s asking for you, over in wines.”
It’s got to be Tillie. She comes in once a week to peruse our wine shelves and select another for her collection. She always asks my opinion, making me rattle off my corporate-required knowledge of grape varieties and flavor profiles, even though, inevitably, she chooses one based on nothing more than its label.
“Let me just fix this, first.” I look back at the screen. Sienna’s slap must have done the trick, or else been impeccably timed, because the system’s running again.
The wine section is on the other side of the store, inside a room with racks for walls. I stop when I round the corner and spot Shepherd through the grid.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.” I motion to the wine in his hand. “Thought you didn’t drink.”
“Don’t. Just noticed this one had a pretty label.”
I suppress my smile. “Yeah. That’s actually Tillie’s favorite from here, so far.” I fold my arms, but decide this is too combative. Shepherd and I have been avoiding each other for weeks, but in a civil way. After all, we’re both on the same page now: I like you, but I can’t date you. Simple. Even our last encounter—three weeks back, when I knocked on his door at Tillie’s and gave him the results of my blood test: all clear—had gone smoothly.
Still, civil or not, things are awkward. I put my arms down and fix wrinkles in my uniform that aren’t there.
“So,” he says, drawing in a breath as he puts back the wine, “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About anything in particular?”
“Yeah. About us.” He looks at me from under his brow, smiling, and I feel a flutter in my chest I wish I didn’t.
“Shepherd,” I begin, already shaking my head, but he holds up his hand.
“I know, I know. All that stuff you said, about getting hurt, and being scared—it’s true. If I relapsed, it would hurt you. That’s exactly why I bailed on you in Houston.”
He pauses, swallowing. “But you were right about the rest of it, too. Especially the fact that I’m not who I used to be. Because the old me, he wouldn’t care who he hurt. The guy I am now, though...he does care.”
Hesitantly, his hand reaches out and takes mine, the keys on my wristband jingling. I almost pull back, but there’s a sureness to his voice, a conviction I’ve never heard before. My grip relaxes.
“Dating would be a risk for both of us,” he says. “I won’t pretend that’s not true, because the fact is...you could get hurt. I could slip up and lose you forever.” He takes another breath, running his thumb over my knuckles. “But it would also be another reason for me to stay clean. A big one.”
I look down at the floor. His boots are covered in caulk and pieces of drywall. “And if I still say no? I mean...I can’t be your only reason.”
“You wouldn’t be.” Shepherd tightens his hold on my hand. “I wouldn’t put that kind of pressure on you, or anyone—and I wouldn’t center my recovery on any one thing. That’d be stupid.” He offers a small, coy grin. “And despite my history of poor decisions, I’m actually pretty smart.”
I try not to smile back, but fail.
“I’ve got a job,” he adds. “I’m talking to my parents again, and I’ve made peace with what happened with Jess. Plus, there are still the reasons I got clean to begin with, like being healthy, and actually enjoying life...and the fact Tillie would kick my ass if she caught me off the wagon.”
We both laugh. The awkwardness between us melts, just that easily.
“I’ve really missed you,” he says.
“Me, too.” I blush when he uses his other hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I know we only spent a few days together, but...but it feels like I got to know you more in those few days than most people I’ve known for years. I can’t explain it.”
“Maybe it can’t be explained. It just is.” He touches my hair again, letting his fingers trail the curve of my jaw, hooking them under my chin and lifting my face.
“You called it a risk,” I say, my voice soft as his mouth gets closer to mine. For a few seconds, I forget to breathe, just like our first night together. “What if it goes wrong?”
He winds his fingers into my hair and skates his other hand around my waist, pulling me so close I know he can see the locket tucked into my collar. I’ve worn it every day since he gave it to me.
“What if it doesn’t?” he quips.
I’m still smiling when he kisses me.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
Shepherd
The call comes in around noon. Maybe it’s a sign of some kind—or just a coincidence—that it happens on my three-and-a-half year anniversary.
“Hang on,” I tell Freddie, who’s helping me install a new sink, heavy as hell. We set it down, and I step out while Freddie takes a seat at the new island. He’s grateful for a break.
“Hello?”
“Hey. I got it.”
Instantly, my heart rate spikes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The guy coughs, sounding even grosser than the last time I talked to him. “You still want it, right?”
God help me, my palms are actually sweaty, here. “Uh, yeah, yeah—I definitely want it. I can’t get the money to you until five-thirty, though. I’m at work.”
The guy sighs to himself, a breeze across the receiver. “All right, man, but you better have it.”
“Had the first half, didn’t I?”
He sighs again, hanging up with a cough.
“Do you miss it, ever?”
I look at Hunter, one of the younger kids. He’s sixteen, but small. I know he gets picked on a lot. You can just tell.
“Sometimes,” I admit. I think back to what Frieda said in NA, the night I took Lila. The night I almost lost her.
“The urges get less frequent, the longer you’re clean,” I tell the group. We’re stretched on the grass outside the rec room, enjoying the tail end of spring. It almost feels like summer, if you ignore the breeze occasionally crashing down, a chill that hops clear over the building.
“But when it does hit,” I add, “it can be strong. Like, the temptation is almost no different now than it was when I first got clean.” I pause, watching the kids shift o
n the lawn, hiding their worry. “But we get stronger, too.”
Beside me, Hunter peels a blade of grass down the middle. He’s newly clean, court-ordered, and always fidgeting. When I look his way, though, he goes still.
“You can’t dwell on how much you miss that life. Mine wasn’t as good as I remember—in my head, it’s all parties and fun, no responsibilities...but that was only the first couple months, at best.”
For just a second, I think of Jess, the last time I ever saw her: slipping the needle out of Donnie’s arm, surrounded by garbage, fragile as a bird.
“After the fun wore off, I had nothing left. Just the drugs. I didn’t even have the high anymore—they just got me to normal. I’d lost basically everything.”
I get quiet. Hunter rips another piece of grass. Kayla, who spends most meetings painting her nails like she isn’t listening, stares at me, waiting for the rest.
“So I do miss it,” I finish, “but not for long, anymore. The good times were just a blip. The rest was...pretty much hell.” I look around the circle at each of them. Nicole picks at some electrical tape on her headphones, hanging around her neck; Eli brushes a spot of dirt off his sneakers, which always look brand-new. Stephanie, four months pregnant and two months clean, rests her hands on her stomach and stares at the back of the building, thoughtful.
“Any more questions?” I ask.
“Yeah, I got one.” Candice, who chews four sticks of peppermint gum at a time, smiles. “You proposing to Lila tonight, or what?”
The group gets rowdy, bouncing and laughing, everyone teasing me at once. I scratch my neck and blush. “Not tonight, no.”
A collective “aw” sounds. “You said as soon as it got warm outside for your little plan thing, you’d ask her.” Nicole gives a smug smile and motions around us. “Warm enough to have group out here, warm enough to propose.”
“Not tonight,” I repeat, smiling but firm, before their agreement can turn into full-on heckling. “I’ve still got to set some stuff up.”
