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He rose to his full height as I approached, eyeing me questioningly. He certainly wasn’t what I expected.
Dad’s light-brown hair and blue eyes and something in the set of his jaw was familiar, but other than that... Matthew’s hair was long and pulled back with a leather strap, a piece of it falling endearingly over his brows. He was taller than Dad, but where our father was beefy in his prime, Matthew was all lean muscle.
He didn’t have a jacket on, and when he crossed his arms, tattoos peeked out from the backs of his hands and snaked under the short sleeves of a “Guatemala: Save the Children” t-shirt. Worn jeans and Crocs completed a look that the reverend—as Hope would say—would never approve of. His gaze traveled from me to Adam, then back to me before closing his eyes as if conceding some sort of battle. When he opened them again, his eyes were kind but guarded.
He held out a hand. “Hello, Faith.”
My eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You know who I am.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth, and he motioned with a tilt of his head for us to follow him into the house. I glanced back at Adam, who was casing the garage as if looking for threats.
“Stay here,” I mouthed.
“No.”
I sighed in exasperation. “Then come on,” I whispered.
“You’re fucking crazy,” he hissed.
“He’s harmless,” I hissed back.
Adam just narrowed his eyes my way and inclined his head toward the door as if to silently say, ‘I’ve got your back.’
Inside, the house wasn’t what I imagined either. I don’t know what I really envisioned. Maybe a version of Dad’s house, with religious paraphernalia and clocks everywhere. But no. It was a bit rough, like a man lived there alone. Odd artifacts and prints adorned walls and makeshift tables around his living room. Magazines—the actual paper kind—spilled over a coffee table that looked to be carved from a tree.
“Coffee?” he asked, gesturing toward a fresh pot.
Adam shook his head.
“Sure,” I said, twisting my fingers together, feeling very off-kilter.
I’d come with a confrontation in mind. An altercation planned. Being invited inside for coffee wasn’t in my notes.
When we were seated around a small kitchen table, my gaze traveled along a built-in bookshelf filled with random old books, some novelty items that likely had stories and memories attached to them, and then—there was my reason for being there.
The small sign with the name Isaiah and the scripture from Isaiah 9:6, “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.”
Matthew followed my gaze. “He gave me that,” he said, pulling my attention back to him. “It’s my middle name.”
I nodded. “He has—had—the same one in his office.”
He nodded as well, palming his coffee mug and looking down into it. “Confession,” he said, smiling slightly. “I grew up always wanting to meet you.”
A surprised laugh escaped my throat. “You—knew about us?”
“Yeah,” he said. “My mom was always honest with me. Told me where we were in the pecking order, so to speak. I heard when your mom died... sorry about that, by the way.”
I blinked and nodded, not knowing how to respond to that. “You—too,” I managed, remembering Hope saying that his mother had passed as well.
“I came to his funeral, but...” He shook his head, his brows drawing together. “I couldn’t—couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I didn’t belong there, and—you all had enough going on.” He cleared his throat as if pushing the weirdness aside. “To be honest, I thought this would happen weeks ago, and I figured it would be Hope.”
“Hope?”
“Lawyer.”
Another laugh came out of my mouth unbidden as my gaze flicked to Adam. He was not laughing. “Wow.”
Matthew shrugged. “Grace is a teacher; Hope’s a lawyer; you’re the church administrator.”
