“We’re not mad. We’re hurt and disappointed,”plays in a loop like the theme song for my failings.
My body shakes, filled with suffocating emotions looking for fissures to escape through. I need to do something. I need it to stop. Reaching for the closest object I can throw, desperate to break something that isn’t me, the hundred-year-old book sitting on my nightstand flies across the room.
Time stops as the irreplaceable heirloom crashes into the wall, the binding breaking and loose pages fluttering across the floor.
Feeling dead inside, I fall to my knees, staring at the destruction around me. The worn, browned pages of Søren Kierkegaard’sFear and Tremblingblanketing my room act as an almost ironic physical manifestation of my life.
The book should’ve been put away days ago, safe from the harsh conditions of natural sunlight, but instead it sat like a talisman next to my bed. Using the story of Abraham when God tested his faith, its words explore the anxiety and struggle of duty versus personal wants. Of people that find happiness within themselves versus those who seek it from something bigger and beyond the self.
Slowly, like a robot designed for a single task, I begin the arduous process of collecting the delicate pages. I put them in order as I go, struggling not to further damage the paper with my clumsy, shaking hands, but there are definite creases that will be difficult to repair. Most of the pages are easy to find, scattered in plain sight. Others take a frustrating amount of effort to retrieve, trapped underneath my bed, behind my desk, and tucked between my two small bookcases.
I know I can fix the book. Meticulously glue everything back together. Carefully iron out the wrinkles. It will take hours, but if done correctly, no one should be able to tell what happened. It will never be the same. It will appear good as new, but I’ll know it was broken. Something fragile that I once again failed to take proper care of.
With the pieces ofFear and Tremblingin my hands, I stare at its thoughtful, printed words. My room is filled with a thick, nearly claustrophobic silence. Feeling both hollow and full, only one word slips from my lips.
“Shit.”
Chapter 5
Callie
“Are you okay?” I ask Kaleb as we walk out of our Psychology AP class.
He frowns, his lips pursed, and adjusts the straps of his backpack. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you might want to rethink that statement,” I reply, motioning to his attire.
His blue dress shirt is untucked and unbuttoned to nearly the middle of his chest, his white tank undershirt is visible, and his dark wash jeans look like they’ve been worn for a few days. There are even scuff marks on his normally polished black boots. It’s not that it’s a bad look on him. I noticed quite a few girls in class who were extremely interested in his more exposed chest—not that I was one of them. Sigh. Okay, I was. I really need to stop checking out my friends.
He looks down at himself and sighs. I know there’s something really wrong when he doesn’t immediately do anything to fix it.
“Was it really bad yesterday?” I inquire, wincing. “I’m sorry you got in trouble. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t asked you to—”
“Stop,” he interrupts, while literally stopping in the hallway, the stream of students headed out for lunch rushing past us.
He pulls me to the side near the wall and stands so close I have to lean my head back to look up at him. If one good thing came out of all of that awfulness on Saturday, it’s that Kaleb’s no longer physically distant with me. I guess an almost kiss seems minor compared to showering together.
My cheeks burn thinking about it again, not that I’ve really stopped thinking about it. It’s like any idle moment my brain has is spent piecing together more memories from that night, and as awkward as it was, the shower beats… well, the other stuff. Except for me losing my mind, the shower was kind of nice... and intimate. My gaze drops to his exposed collarbones, remembering how it felt to wash his chest with the soapy loofah.
What were we talking about again?
Kaleb hugs me, which is both helping and not, and murmurs in my hair, “I stayed because I wanted to. Don’t apologize. Don’t feel guilty.”
“Okay,” I mumble, trying to ignore how good he smells, like sandalwood incense and hidden places within old library stacks. “I won’t blame myself if you tell me what’s wrong.”
“I…” He swallows heavily, while his grip tightens around me. “My parents have decided that it’s time to start taking a more active approach in preparing for my light nephilim duties,” he murmurs, stepping back. His hand slips down my arm, following the long sleeve of my red ASU hoodie.
Felix is the first thing that pops into my head, and it’s only the resigned look in Kaleb’s eyes that keeps me from panicking. We talked about helping Felix cross over, but he wouldn’t act like this if that was what he meant about an ‘active’ approach, would he? I take another look at him, and my stomach sinks. This is exactly the way he’d look if Felix… White noise full of panic rings in my ears, and I miss most of Kaleb’s explanation.
“...so now I’ll be volunteering at the hospital, helping hospice patients,” he finishes, and I swear I’m nearly lightheaded with relief.
Based at the single raised brow he’s giving me, relief is probably not the face I should be making.
I clear my throat. “That... uh… sucks. I mean, you have so much other stuff you’re doing, isn’t adding volunteer work a lot?”
He shrugs. “I’ll just have to find the time.”
The crowd in the hallway is significantly smaller now, and with a single hand on my shoulder, he leads me toward the cafeteria.
