Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) (14 page)

Pulling away from the train station in Gastonia, I close my eyes and hope to fall asleep for the majority of my five-plus-hour ride to Atlanta. Kennedy left before me, and that hour I had to kill until my train boarded was near torture. I tried texting her a couple of times, but I knew as soon as her train departed, her signal would be spotty through most of North Carolina. She hasn’t responded to any of them yet.

At least I hope a bad signal is the reason she hasn’t texted back. I tried not to be too weird when we hugged goodbye, though admittedly, her hug then was weaker than the hug she gave me when we were sitting on the bench in the station.

Crap
.

She said “sorry” several times, and I’m sure she sensed I wasn’t giving her the kind of hug I usually do—thanks to my friggen pep talk with Jonah. He was right, though. I don’t want to give her the wrong impression, and if I’m left feeling like this after
not
hugging her the way I wanted to, I better be careful. I know how quickly desires can get ahead of someone. I don’t want to hurt anyone—Kennedy especially—so I need to be careful since I’m destined to be screwed up in that area.

Kennedy says she doesn’t believe in fate or destiny, and I know that I shouldn’t, either, but it’s hard not to when you watch your father fall into the same manhole that swallowed his own father decades before. I never met Grand
d
addy Wells, as my mother still affectionately refers to him, but I can’t say I long for that missed opportunity. He drank himself to death a few years before I was born, a fact my father was sure to remind me of during his “anti-everything” campaigns warning me of the dangers of sex, drugs, and alcohol.

Funny that I didn’t even have to feed him his own words when the time came; stepping away from the pulpit after tiredly addressing his congregation for the last time was the only public service announcement he needed. Even if he gave it to himself.

I could have gotten home quicker had someone come to pick me up. I’d have saved myself two hours if my mom came with my sister and drove me home, but I couldn’t risk it. Worse than spending five hours on a train to Atlanta, and another hour and a quarter in a car back north to Rome would be spending a full four-and-a-half hours in the car with my father, if he’d chosen to come. Even worse still would have been a drive with just the two of us.

I’m happy to have this time to chill out after what’s been an interesting semester at Carter University so far—made even more interesting by the addition of Kennedy Sawyer into my life. I crack a grin when I think back to her asking me to come to that Bible study with her. I gave her a hard time, but the truth is I would have followed her into a bar if she’d asked me to. Even if it was just for the chance to watch her.

I know there’s far more depth to her than even she shows, which is a lot, and I can’t help but be drawn to whatever energy it is she puts out. The fact that Roland and my dad are old college friends, and her mom knows my dad, might complicate things. I don’t want my dad in any part of my life right now—let alone my personal life. But if Kennedy’s mom, Wendy, thinks she’s buddy-buddy with “Buck,” even more so than she is with Roland, we’ll have problems.

Shaking my head, I work to clear my head of these thoughts. I have no business planning a future with a girl who wants nothing to do with a screwed up Southern PK. Truth is, what business would we even have being in a relationship with each other? While I’m not firm on many political issues, a wild guess is more than I need to tell me where Kennedy and I would fall on either side of any given issue. And, while it’s all well and good to think we should just get to be friends for a while before we delve into politics—as I even suggested on our walk through the woods a couple weeks ago—it really will only make things worse. The closer you are to someone w
hen
the gauntlet falls, the more you’re splattered in the fallout.

A notification of a text message dings through my earbuds as I thumb through my music to find an appropriate playlist for the rest of the ride home. My heart nearly stops when I see it’s from Kennedy

Kennedy:
Just got a few of your text messages at once. Service has sucked.

Me:
No worries. How’s your ride going?

My palms sweat as I try to feign normal conversation with her, when my feelings are anything but.

Kennedy:
It’s going to be like twelve hours, but nothing crazy to report yet, thankfully. Except some drunk guy who’s been on the train since somewhere on the West Coast. Unfortunately for Red Sox Nation, he’s wearing Boston gear from head-to-toe as he tells the car his tales of broken-heartedness.

My jaw drops at Kennedy’s assertion that this doesn’t fall under the category of “crazy.” Then I remember she’s not that far from New York City. Still, it’s unsettling.

Me:
Can you switch cars? Is he still drinking?

Kennedy:
* Shrugs * Probably. He has a Gatorade bottle, but if I were a betting woman—which I’m not—I’d bet 100 to 1 that there isn’t a single drop of electrolyte goodness in that bottle. It smells like a frat house.

Kennedy:
I think. I’ve never been in a frat house, but this is what I imagine one would smell like. Tales of woe … and moonshine.

I laugh out loud, causing the middle-aged woman across the aisle from me to grin and shake her head. Kennedy texts again before I have a chance to respond
.

Kennedy
: Wait! Have you had moonshine before?

Me:
No.

I try to think of something wittier to say, but she’d out-perform me in the wit category eight times out of ten, if I showed up to every challenge she invited me to, so I need to choose my battles carefully
.

Kennedy:
You’re lying
.

Me:
Why do you say that? Is it because I’m from the South? That’s it, isn’t it? Bigot ;)

I
am
a betting man, and am certain this chide won’t offend her.

Kennedy:
Stereotypes come from somewhere,
Matthew
;) You better figure out a way to pony up some moonshine when I come check out your Southern digs sometime.

The thought of Kennedy in my house makes me thankful I’m already sitting down.

Me:
You want to come to Georgia?

Kennedy:
Yep. Scared?

Me:
No, but I’m from
t
here. You should make sure your passport’s up-to-date, though ;)

Kennedy:
Touché
. :)

Yes.
I congratulate myself for the patience it took before I delivered that line. I’ve been waiting weeks to serve it to her. For the moment, I’m grateful that she doesn’t seem to be sending weird vibes about my less-than-smooth behavior lately. Still feeling unsettled about her unsavory rail companion, I refocus the conversation.

Me:
Are you sure you’re all right with that guy? What if he gets drunker?

Kennedy:
Oh, he’ll get drunker, for sure. Then he’ll pass out. Can I tell you something, though, without you saying ‘told you so’?

Me:
I’d never say that to you.

Kennedy:
We’ll see.

Me:
What is it?

Kennedy:
It’s a moment like this when I kind of understand CU’s guidelines about traveling in pairs … and girls not traveling alone off campus.

Sitting forward in my seat, my mind races for any possible way I can help her here. But, there aren’t any. I’m on a train heading south, and she’s going northeast. We couldn’t be traveling further apart. In more ways than one.

Me:
How strong is your signal? Think we can voice talk for a while?

My phone rings a few seconds later.

“Hey,” I say, trying not to sound out of breath.

“Hey,” she half-whispers. “I’m talking quietly because people are starting to fall asleep.” In the background I can hear the drunken sound of belligerence.

“That him?”

She sighs. “Yes. It’s just annoying more than anything. If he’s still at it by the time we get off the phone, I’m going to talk to the crew.”

I huff through my nose. “No one has said anything yet?”

Her voice is dry. “People are trying to ignore him. I do feel kind of bad for him. He’s clearly got issues. And he went all the way to Arizona for, like, a year-and-a-half to live with his girlfriend, and they stopped doing drugs, and—”

“Wait,” I cut in. “You’ve
talked
to him?”

“Yeah. Well, he did most of the talking, honestly. I just kind of nodded and offered a sympathetic smile every four seconds, or so. He’s going to write a book about his whole experience. He had a spiritual moment somewhere in New Mexico. I have my doubts that peyote wasn’t involved.”

“Peyote?” I repeat, feeling culturally ill-equipped for this part of the conversation.

“It’s a psychotropic drug. Like mushrooms.”

Okay,
mushrooms
I’ve heard of.

“Why do people always say they have those kinds of experiences on drugs like that?”

“I don’t know.” She pauses for a moment, and I wish I could be watching her face. Her eyes always show that her brain is working a thousand miles a minute. Deep and th
ough
tful, even when choosing what she wants for dinner. “Maybe some people need it, I guess. Maybe some people literally
can’t
get out of their head without the stuff.”

“It’s not about getting out of anywhere, though. It’s about letting Jesus
in
.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Eighteen years of pastoral-like training at the hands of my father and his congregations has stitched these pieces of conversation into my brain for times when I’m questioned or am struggling to think on my feet.

“Shit,” I whisper before she can reply. “I didn’t … didn’t mean to sound all door-to-door there.” I lean my head back, certain I’ve blown it with her forever. Whatever
it
is.

“Matt Wells!” Kennedy shrieks into the phone. “Did
you
just
swear
?”

I let out a growl. “Sorry.”

“Oooh,” she teases, “you’re tired. You’re accent is wicked thick right now.”

“Wicked?” I tease back. “So is yours.”

“Shush.”

“
You
shush.”

“Anyway,” she continues. “I know it’s about letting Jesus in. But not everyone is there, you know? And sometimes you have to go away from home, even if home is your head, in order to figure out what, exactly, it is you’re missing.”

Something in her voice makes me nervous. “You homesick, K. Sawyer?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, “but the bitch of it is, I don’t even know
what
my home is.”

I’m silent, because this is where Kennedy and I have a lot more in common than I think either of us fully realize. We both know how we were raised, but neither of us know
s
if that’s where our hearts feel at home. The part that turns my stomach in knots is that the place she’s examining and clearly moving closer to is the part I’m praying to get away from.

“Why have you been weird lately?” She finally calls me out.
“Hello?” she asks several seconds later when I’ve failed to come up with anything useful to say.

“It’s complicated,” I go with.

She chuckles sarcastically. The only person I’ve met that can weave sarcasm into laughter as effectively as she does. “Welcome to it. Seriously, though. Did I offend you, or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like, I don’t know …”

“You can ask me, Kennedy, we’re several hundred miles apart by now. I’m not going to throw anything at you,” I tease.

“Fine.” She huffs. “Just, like, the past several weeks you’ve always been, like, right by my side. And, I don’t know, the other day you didn’t even, like, hug me right.”

I can tell she’s nervous by her exponential increase of the word “like.”

“Hug you right?”

“Yeah,” she responds quickly. “Like … it wasn’t a
Matt hug
.”

My chest squeezes around the term I hadn’t even realized she created. Matt hug.

“I …” I start, but she keeps talking.

“I need you to hug me sometimes. I need that warm, overpowering hug to remind me that you’re a real person, and that I’m a real person, too, and that I’m going to be okay. I’m freaked out a lot, you know. But … crap … do you have a girlfriend at home? Jeeeeeeeze, I can’t believe I never asked you. What’s wrong with me?” Her words spill out faster and faster.

“Kennedy … Kennedy. K. Sawyer!” I half-shout through a laugh.
The woman across the aisle is thoroughly enjoying my half of the conversation. “Calm down. No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” she sounds equal parts relieved and disappointed, “I thought you’d developed a guilty conscience about hugging a girl who
wasn’t
your girlfriend.”

I’m silent because, in part, she’s right.

“Wait,” she starts, as if she can read my brain, “is that it?”

I swallow hard. “Is what it?”

“Is it because of some personal rules about not hugging non-girlfriends? I mean, a couple of
the
times you hugged me were in pretty emotionally intense situations, so I get that in your mind that might have been getting carried away, or something. And, I know that the CU guidelines are actually less strict for some students than their own personal or home rules … is that you?”

“Again … it’s complicated. I don’t really feel weird about hugging you, but I need to keep that in check.” I decide to be as honest with her as I can be. “Like, I wouldn’t want one of us to get the wrong idea, because then both of us will end up getting hurt. I just …” I trail off, taking a breath to stop myself from telling her I like her like
that
.

“You just …” she prompts me.

“I’m broken there, Kennedy. I’ve got issues.” Admitting it feels like a ten-ton elephant left my chest, then kicked me in the head.

“Was it a bad breakup? Like, have you been down this road with someone? Sleep with someone and you both, like, regretted it or something?”

“No!” I respond instantly. “There was no bad breakup, and no sex.”

“No sex? Like … ever?”

“No,” I whisper-shout. “I’ve never had sex. What don’t you understand about where I come from?”

Kennedy clicks her tongue. “I understand that people break rules all the time. And, from talk around campus, I realize that I’ve got more in common with Bridgette and Eden than I thought I did in the V-department.”

“
You’ve
never had sex either?” I try to hide my astonishment, but even the lady across the
aisle
catches it. She clears her throat in an attempt to hid
e
her laughter, avoiding eye contact with me.

“You sound so surprised,” Kennedy spits out.

“I didn’t have a ton of information to work with, K. Sawyer. Just goin’ with what I know.”

“And that made you think I’d had sex?” She sounds offended, but I’m not about to let her get away with it.

“Don’t give me that,” I challenge her. “You know where I was raised, Kennedy. I’m supposed to save myself for marriage and for a girl who does the same. And everyone who hasn’t come to Jesus has probably stumbled in this area. The teen pregnancy rates are what they are for a reason.
Someone
is having sex.”

“Did you honestly think I’d had sex before?” she asks. “I mean you know I’m a Christian.”

“Right.” I sigh. “But not
born again
, so, in some circles, that doesn’t count.”

“Nice,” she cracks.

“Right?” I agree. “What are some things you’ve thought about
us?
”

“Who? Evangelicals? Or Southerners?”

I grumble. “Both.”

“Okay, as far as Evangelicals go … that you’re all crazy.
Too intense
. You think you’re all right about Jesus and the Bible is a hundred percent accurate. Oh, and people and dinosaurs walked together and the earth is, like, four-thousand-years-old, or something like that. Which, honestly, leads to the assumption that you’re all a little dumb. Sorry,” she adds in quickly.

“Forgiven?” I ask.

“Forgiven,” she answers. “And me?”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll let you off the hook this time.”

“Oh, come on!” She shouts away from the receiver, so I know she’s not talking to me. “Matt, I gotta go.”

“What’s wrong
?
” I’d almost forgotten that I’d asked her to talk just so I knew she was okay with that miscreant on the train.

One you’re supposed to love.

Kennedy’s voice is higher pitched than usual. “Our psychedelic baseball fan just spewed his
Gatorade
all over his seat.” I chuckle at her invisible air-quotes around his beverage of choice. “Good news? We get to move into a new car and he is staying in here. Bad news? I gotta go so I can get my crap together. Then, I’m probably going to try to sleep for a while since I’ll get to Connecticut at the crack of dawn. How much more time do you have on the train?”

I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time. “Just a couple hours.”

“Well, stay out of trouble,” she says with a small laugh. “Text me any excitement, if you should be as lucky as I’ve been today. Oh! Also text me over break, okay?”

“You got it. You text me, too.”

“I will. Oh,” she adds in again. “Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not broken. I don’t know what your story is, and I know you’ll tell me eventually, but you’re definitely not broken.”

I let out a soft sigh. “You’re sweet.”

“So are you. All right, it’s starting to stink in here, gotta go. Bye!”

“Bye,” I say long after the call ends.

Scrolling past my hidden “Heavy Metal” playlist, I settle for some Casting Crowns. I need to get my head on, and I know these guys get it. They get where I am, even if I don’t know how much I jive with their message. It’s not that I’m questioning my belief in God, or Jesus, or whatever, but seeing what my family has been put through in the past few years leaves me wondering.

Why?

My dad used to be a good guy. A hard working, Bible-loving, family man of a good guy. Then, just like that … gone. Everything I revered in him and believed to be true was washed away. Why would God do that to me? To test my belief? Nearly destroy my whole family just to test my belief? Not to mention my mother’s and sister’s?

“Girlfriend?” The woman across the aisle from me speaks up.

“Excuse me?” I ask politely.

She nods to my phone. “Was that your girlfriend?”

I shake my head. “Just a friend. My best friend,” I say out loud for the first time.

A sweet smile crosses her lips. “Yet,” she says.

“What?”

Shaking her head slightly, she goes back to her book. “Nothing. Sorry for butting in.”

“Not at all, ma’am.” I dial up my accent and southern charm. Her accent sounds about as far north as Kennedy’s does, so I know this could go one of two ways, but I’m counting on Hollywood’s romanticism of Southern boys to take over.

She takes the bait and smiles at me. “Keep that up with her, and she’ll be your girlfriend in no time.”

Grinning, I click play and adjust my earbuds before leaning my head against the window. No matter what ends up happening with Kennedy and I in the future, I desperately need a friend right now. More than I ever have.