Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) (15 page)

Thankfully, the drunken, scorned lover was the most exciting thing that happened on my trip. I was able to sleep several hours straight last night, thanks to my earbuds, neck pillow, and eye mask, and even though we’ll be pulling into the Stamford station in a few minutes, I
managed to snag
a cup of coffee from the dining car. I need to be awake enough to order at Starbucks, which will be my first stop once I get into my mom’s car.

I grin at the horror that would override Asher’s normally straight-faced facade if I told him I plan to spend a hundred dollars, give or take, at the international coffee chain over the course of the next several days. He asked me once, just after he hired me, if I ever drank there. My lack of response was all he needed. He just shook his head, told me that forgiveness was meant for coffee-drinkers, too, and walked away. I guess I should have picked up that he was a Jesus freak then, but I still thought he was joking around with me about my residence up on The Hill. I resolve to get to know him better once I get back to campus. I’ve avoided talk with him about the prison ministry that I know he has, because he hasn’t told me about it. It’s all been second hand information and I don’t want to seem like a weird stalker. But, I’m curious and, if nothing else, I’ve learned it’s best to go straight to the source when you need actual information.

Once inside the station, I’m grateful to shuffle past the luggage carousel and straight to the main area. This is one of the busiest Amtrak stations in Connecticut—save for New Haven—so business people traveling to and from jobs in New York City, and parts of Connecticut are forced to co-mingle with travel-wary Thanksgiving passengers, such as myself. In an effort to cause as little angst for those on their way to work, I keep my head down and head for the front sidewalk, where I arranged for my mom to pick me up. I’m anxious to see her, but hugging in the middle of a thousand stressed out corporate asshats is
not
my idea of a happy reunion.

Standing outside, I’m less than enthusiastic to have to dig for the thickest sweater I’d packed for myself when heading to Carter. And, admittedly, it’s not thick at all. A cashmere cardigan, that I’ve only worn once on campus, is doing a crappy job of saving my skin from the icy bite of the wind. And snow.

Snow!

Blinking like I’ve never opened my eyes before, my eyes dart around the parking lot and the surrounding trees. My goose bumped skin is taking a back seat to the fresh, glittering snow resting delicately on the branches and blowing in sparkling circles through the parking lot. It’s a sunny day, made blindingly so by the reflective layer of icy snow.

“Snow!” I raise my arms and jump up and down, forgetting momentarily that it doesn’t typically snow this early.

“From around here?” a guy sporting a UC Berkley sweatshirt asks, standing a few feet away from me.

I nod wildly. “I am, but I haven’t seen snow yet this year. I go to school in North Carolina.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head to the side, interested. “Chapel Hill?” he asks of one of UNC’s campuses.

I shake my head. “No. A smallish school. Carter.” I rub my hands together, blowing on them for extra warmth.

“Carter University?” he questions, and suddenly I find myself wincing, waiting for the look of pity, horror, or grief that i
s
sure to cross his face.

I clear my throat. “You’ve heard of it?” I ask brightly, trying to hide my nerves.

He scrunches his eyebrows as if he’s trying to place it. I take this moment to enjoy his California-kissed sandy blonde hair, shaggy by normal standards—extreme by Carter’s. His eyes are light brown—almost like sand themselves. He’s basically turned into the beach, it seems, during his time at Berkley. His tanned skin mocks the snow blowing between us.

“Christian school, right?” he finally asks.

I can’t tell if he’s messing with me. If you’ve heard of Carter, it’s not usually in passing. There’s usually one divisive reason or another that the name would pass around the dinner table. Especially in Connecticut.

“Yep.” I nod, tightening my sweater around me and wondering where in God’s name my mother is.

“You
live
around here?”

I nod.

He looks down to the sidewalk for a minute, then sets his hands on his hips before looking up at me. “You look familiar.”

“No I don’t,” I spit out.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Wait. Are you that televangelist’s daughter?”

Headdesk.

His eyes widen during my silence. “No way.”

I shrug. “Yes way. How did you even …
?
”

“Kennedy Sawyer?” He needs more confirmation, apparently.

“That’s me.”

He points to his chest. “I’m Brock Kratz.”

Brock. Naturally …

“Hi Brock.” I stick out my hand. “I’d introduce myself, but that would seem a bit contrived. Wait,” most of the air leaves my lungs, “did you say Kratz? Are you related to …
?
”

My ex-boyfriend?

“Trent?” he asks, smiling from ear to sun-kissed ear.

Yep, that’s him.

“Yeah. How do you … what?”

“I’m his cousin. His dad’s brother’s son. We live out in San Dimas.” He becomes more animated by the second. “Yeah, man, Trent called me a couple of weeks ago and told me what was going down with you. Said you’d be on the Today Show. How weird is this?”

I sigh. “It’s uncanny …”

“Will I see you on Friday at Trent’s party?”

I shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”

Stranger than showing up at my ex-boyfriend’s house nearly two years after we last kissed.

“Dude, well,” he reaches out his hand, not to shake mine, but to high-five it, “I hope to see you. That’s some crazy shit there, right? That school? Jesus Christ.” His eyes widen. “Shit, sorry. I mean …”

I hold up my hand. “Take it easy,” I dryly assure him. “You’re forgiven.”

“You’re an awesome chick,” he says, moving toward a taxi that’s idling at the curb. “I hope to see you Friday.”

I wave frantically. “Doubtful,” I mumble through my full-toothed smile.

He doesn’t seem to hear me, which is little consolation given he’s probably going to tell Trent while he’s in the car that he’s had a run-in with me. I thought it was odd that I hadn’t heard from Trent during the whole Roland
fiasco
. Even though we’d broken up before he went to college, we always kept loose tabs on each other. I’d get a text from him if I had a good basketball game, and he sent me flowers when he found out I’d nabbed the valedictorian spot in my graduating class. So, it was just … weird when there was silence on his end during my small time in the national spotlight.

Even weirder was he’d call
ed
his cousin about it without so much as a text asking me if, oh, I don’t know, I was okay having my family tree rearranged on national TV.

Whatever.

Despite being on the fence about going to his party as it was, given that I’m still expected to play by CU rules despite being seven hundred miles from campus, now there’s no way I’m going.

Maybe.

It would be nice, after all, to have some breathing room around normal people for a few hours. I
that
know my friends at CU are normal, sort of, but I mean
my
kind of normal. And, if I’m being completely honest with myself, I need reassurance that I can still fit in. That one
foot in my old life and one in my new is still a safe path to travel.

Before I can give it much more thought, I hear my name from across the parking lot. Squinting, I shield my eyes and crane my neck to the side, where I see arms waving and someone racing toward me.

“
Mollie?
” I shout as her petite figure bounds toward me.

“Damn straight, fool! Who else would come out here at the crack of dawn to pick your ass up?” We crash into a squealing hug.

“I’m freezing!” I admit when we separate. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Starbucks?” She winks.

“I love you.”

Once inside Mollie’s warm Jetta, I text my mom and let her know Mollie’s retrieved me, and we’d be making a coffee run before heading home. Then, I thumb over to Trent’s contact information, still in my phone for reasons I don’t fully understand, or want to admit. I ignore the fact that Trent isn’t likely to be up for another three or four hours.

Me:
Met Brock at the Stamford station. He’s … interesting.

Trent:
He’s an ass. Glad to hear you’re back on Yankee soil in one piece.

Me:
Be nice.

Trent:
That WAS nice. See you Friday?

Me:
We’ll see. Rules.

Trent:
I’ll behave ;)

I click my tongue and wrinkle my nose.

Me:
Not those rules, you perv. CU rules.

“Who you texting?” Mollie asks, pulling out of the station lot.

“Trent,” I reply nonchalantly.

Mollie immediately pulls the car to the shoulder of the road, puts it in park, and turns on the hazard lights. “Explain.”

So, I do my best. I don’t have much to say, other than the story of Brock, which takes a few minutes to tell in its entirety.

“Isn’t it weird he’d talk to his cousin about it, but never text or Facebook me or anything?” I ask once we’re back on the road.

Mollie shrugs, looking quite contemplative. “He still has a giant boner for you,” she finally says.

“Mollie!” I smack her shoulder, certain my ears will be bleeding before the week is out.

“Calm yourself,” she demands. “This is how we talk. Bring back your accent and crass language, sister. We only have a few days before I send you back into the seventh circle.”

“Of what?”

She laughs. “Hell.”

I roll my eyes and grin. “Stop.”

“Come on,” she says. “Just say it, just once.”

“What? Say what?”

“You know,” she instigates. “You know. Just once. Come on, it’ll feel good.”

Shaking my head, I look out the window and consider it.

“Come on,” Mollie whispers.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes tight and scream as loud and long as I can. “
Fuuuuuuuuuck!”

“Better?” Mollie asks as I lean back against the seat.

I let out a loud laugh and lean across the car to kiss the side of her head. “Much.”

After lounging around Starbucks for an hour, Mollie deposits me at my house and says she’ll call me in a few hours, claiming she needs more sleep after a killer exam week. Once I spot my stepsister’s car in the driveway, I’m too excited to even consider sleep.

“Hel
l
ooo!” I call, creeping through the side door of the kitchen. Dan and Mom are at the oversized range, cooking what smells like Spanish omelets. My favorite.

“There she is!” Mom bellows melodramatically, handing her spatula to Dan and moving toward me with open arms.

“Hey Mom,” I half-whisper as we embrace in a hard, tight hug. “Thanks for having Mollie pick me up.”

She chuckles. “She told us she was. I don’t think we were given much option. Yale’s done her assertiveness some good,” Mom says of my best friend, who is always spunky but sometimes less outspoken than I am.

“How was the ride?” Dan asks, expertly flipping an omelet before sliding it onto a glass plate and placing it on the breakfast bar.

I wave my hand. “Drunk Boston fan threw up everywhere, but I slept most of the way.”

Mom and Dan shake their heads and go back to their task of breakfast-making together.

Walking to the breakfast bar, I take a deep breath, appreciating the smells of home before answering.
The
house is expansive, average by the neighbor’s standards, but I’ve been places and know how fortunate I am to have far more square footage than I could ever possibly need. I mean, seriously, it was just the three of us most of the time in this house, since Jenny spent a majority of the time with her mom, and we have. Of course three of them are used as active bedrooms, including one guest/Jenny room, and the other two have been converted into offices. Dan and Mom each having their own workspaces in which to save the world.

“I see Jenny’s car. Can I assume she’s still sleeping?”

“You could assume that,” Jenny’s voice trails down the stairs,
“
but you know what they say about assumptions.
”

Bleary eyed and bed-headed, Jenny rounds the corner of the main staircase and enters the kitchen, her boyfriend Paul closely behind her.

“I didn’t know you’d be here this early!” I grab her into the tightest hug we’ve shared in a long time. Turns out, I’ve just missed the hel—crap—out of everyone.

She yawns and eyes Paul before pointing to the coffee maker. He understands her silent request, and moves to the machine, pouring two cups. For a moment, I find my eyes darting between all of them, a weird pit in my stomach.

“What?” Jenny asks. When Paul saddles up to her side and hands her the steaming mug of coffee, planting a kiss on her cheek, it hits me.

“Oh
God
,” I grumble.

“What?” Mom asks while everyone goes silent.

I twist my lips in slight embarrassment. “For a second I thought Jenny was about to get in trouble for having a
boy
sleep over. Got any liquor for the coffee? I need a re-emersion course, and fast.
”

After a brief moment of silence, the entire kitchen bursts into a fit of laughter. We settle around the breakfast bar for delicious Spanish omelet’s, hash browns, coffee, and loads of undiscussed premarital sex swirling through the air.

After a full day of catching up on reality TV, and delicious local pizza for dinner, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep before eating more during our Thanksgiving meal tomorrow. I haven’t checked in with Matt since I arrived in Connecticut, so I decide to send him a quick text.

Me:
Forgot to tell you—made it back to CT okay. Drunk guy is probably nursing a heck of a hangover in Boston right now.