CHAPTER FOUR
The quaint,charming Arma Chapel has redefined sanctuary for me. Its warm lighting and high wooden beams wrap me in a sense of peace. But even here, I can’t fully relax. My guard never lowers. I’m always scanning the room for danger, like I’m the Black Widow or something—especially when I spot him. Every Sunday night, around thirty of us gather here to sing worship songs and pray while most students rush to finish homework. It’s nothing like the big, formal services in the auditorium. The worship is intimate here. I savor every minute.
We learned in our hoo-rah freshman orientation that it’s the only original building still standing from the school’s beginnings a hundred years ago. Back then, buildings were made more like art—clean lines and simple beauty. I’ve always loved the classic—minimal, graceful, and elegant—whether in buildings, art, algorithms, style, or ballet.
I find the girls I met last week and perch on a century-oldwooden pew. Pines sway behind the tall, narrow windows. This little white chapel is timeless. No matter how many years pass or what trends come and go, it will always be beautiful. Like a forest, a sunrise, or a perfectly executed arabesque. Like the creator we worship here.
I wish I could concentrate on that worship right now, fully safe as I’m surrounded by God’s people singing to him, but my spidey sense warns of danger behind me. Avoiding Levi has become increasingly difficult, and I’ve even changed a couple of my routes around campus to avoid crossing paths. Seeing him here is the worst. He looks genuine, but I’ve learned the hard way not to trust appearances. Aiden called himself a Christian too, and I know how that turned out. I hate that I’m tempted to believe Levi is different, as if I haven’t learned that lesson well enough by now. Every week, I sit on the opposite side of the chapel from him, a few rows ahead so he stays out of sight, but it never helps. I can still feel his presence behind me. I’m grateful when we split for prayer. I breathe easier tucked into a circle of girls. I’m safer this way.
The girls in my prayer group wave goodbye. A few people remain on the front side of the chapel, wrapping up. Levi is still inside, leaning against the back wall as he talks with a friend. His confidence is on full display as he flicks a Tic Tac box open and shut, open and shut.
Whatever, pal.Just ten more steps and I’ll be out the door.
Trust in me with all your heart,
and do not lean on your own understanding.
My brow wrinkles.
Okay …
Levi pockets the Tic Tac box in his perfectly tailored jeans. I love fashion, not that I can afford much of anything. Mom and I used to search for treasures at thrift stores and on secondhand sites before I moved a thousand miles away. I recognize quality—the stitching, the color, the texture. Money doesn’t buy style, but this guy clearly has both.
He meets my eyes as he calls a “Later, man” to his friend. He pushes off the wall and heads my direction. “Good prayer time?”
I hesitate, but this is the way out. I plow forward, donning my best disinterested face for good measure. “Yep.”
“I’m Levi.” He holds out a hand. The distrust in his eyes doesn’t match his confident body language.
“Kit.” I give an almost-wave, still on a mission toward the door.
He lowers his hand gracefully, transitioning to a blindingly charming smile. I might have winced. His smile reaches his eyes, creases forming at the edges. My heart reacts just like that catalyst in chem lab last week. Is it the smile or the proximity? I don’t even know. This is different from before—he’s a completely different guy—but my body doesn’t know the difference.
“Mind giving me some advice?” he asks, before I can escape.
I glance at the door as my legs lock into place.
Trust you and don’t lean on my own understanding? So don’t run for my life from this conversation?
God must have told me that for a reason. We’re in a public place. I guess I can afford a quick minute.
“There’s this pretty girl on campus,” he says. “We don’t even know each other, but it’s like she’s avoiding me. Yesterday she did a full 180 when she saw me.” His eyebrows raise in amused accusation.
Less obvious avoidance next time—noted.
“Should I take it as a compliment?” he asks. Another charming smile.
My stomach drops. Stay calm. Feign indifference. He’ll move along when it’s clear I won’t stroke his ego. If I take the last two steps to the door, will he follow me?
“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he says.
I scoff. “My foot is fine.” What am I saying? I shake my head. “Rumor has it you don’t talk to girls much anyway.” Too good to be true.
He studies me for a beat. Then quietly, “Maybe I had a bad experience.”
I falter in a flash of compassion. “Oh. Maybe I did too.”
His eyes drill into mine, then soften.
