“You don’t understand.” He says it gently, like my suggestion pains him.
“I don’t. But I’d like to. If you want.”
He pulls in a breath. “I can trust you?”
I confirm with a wobbly nod. I should have left this alone.
With a glance around, he lowers his voice. “He has a history of mental illness.”
I go still.
“If the details leaked, it would be humiliating to him. He’s convinced it would destroy him, our whole family. It’s not … minor. He’s been stable for years, but that doesn’t—” He finally meets my eyes and frowns. “Kit?”
“Mm?” It’s a gurgle, like a moan from cornered prey.
“What?”
“Nnnothing.”
“Just say it.” His jaw clenches. His eyes turn to stone.
“Nothing. I’m so sorry.” I don’t recognize my own voice. My head swirls. I step back.
I didn’t think we could be together, but I had no idea to what extent. Even if I get better, this darkness will always be part of my past. Here he is finally cracking open, but I can’t stay. I can tell him the truth though. He deserves to know, even if it breaks me in the process. I’ll go back and gather my words, write him a letter. I can give it to him just as soon as the family turmoil resolves, when he has the emotional bandwidth.
Thank you for my time with him. Take care of him. Show him what you want from him, and help him obey you.
“I need to—to go.” My limbs are lead.
“You need to go,” he repeats. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. The wall in his eyes cover his whole body, like he’s hardening into a statue.
“I’m sorry. I can’t?—”
“I trust you will care for my father’s situation—that youshouldnothave asked after—with the complete privacy it warrants.”
I nearly crumble to the grass. “Of—of course. I would never?—”
“We’re finished here.” He holds an arm in the direction of my building to dismiss me.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The next night,I slip into the former storage room and click the door closed behind me. My hand hovers over the light switch, but a glance at the upper corner reminds me of the security camera I reluctantly agreed to. I’ll leave the light off. No sound on the recording, so I can speak freely.
The quiet settles over me, lulls my eyelids closed. After two sleepless nights of praying, I could pass out standing up. I shake it off and pull out my phone—two missed calls I need the strength to address. At least I’m alone here. I grimace as an incoming call flashes onto the screen.
Give me the words. And the patience. And the guts.
“Yes?” I wince. Terrible start.
“Excuse me? Were you raised in a barn?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Hello, Mother. How are you this evening?”
“Much better now, thank you. I’m calling with an update. Is that of interest to you, or are you too busy with a tent revival?”
I half smile. Teasing is progress.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I’ve stepped out of the tent to take your call.”
