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How can he talk about things like this in front of our whole family? How does he think he has the right?
Brandon’s expression grows stern. “It’s important to have people like Mariana in the church. Sometimes congregations can be echo chambers. For my part, having someone challenge my faith always strengthens it.”
A lightness blooms in my chest. Brandon is usually honest with my dad, but I don’t think he’s ever stood up for me before.
I don’t think anyone has.
I smile faintly at him, and his eyes soften in response.
“I agree that we need people like that,” my dad says, “but I’d rather it not be my daughter.”
I twist around to scowl at him. “Can we not talk about this at the dinner table?”
My dad’s expression softens. He reaches out to pat my shoulder. “My little firecracker. You’re going to do amazing things someday.”
For God, he means.
Fuck, I have to get out of here. I’m going to make a scene if I don’t.
I stand up from the table and grab my plate. “I have a bad headache,” I say, inwardly cringing at the triteness of the excuse.
“Where do you think you’re going?” my dad calls out.
“Your grandma has extra strength Ibuprofen,” my mom says. Her voice grows hushed as she asks Abuelita in Spanish if she minds that I use the medication leftover from her surgery.
“Ibuprofen makes me nauseous,” I shout over the rushing sink water.
As I walk into the living room to grab my purse, I catch sight of my mom’s stern gaze. I’ll no doubt be getting some scathing texts after I leave, but it will be worth not lashing out at my dad. Not in front of Brandon.
I can’t reinforce his belief that I’m just an unruly child.
As I turn the corner of the dining room into the hallway, I catch sight of Brandon’s intense expression.
He knows.
He knows my feelings as if they were his own.
Am I crazy, or is this invisible connection between us something real?
Brandon
I inhale deeply, attempting to calm the tornado of feelings that have been swirling since Mariana left. “I need to be upfront with you,” I say to Hector. “You hurt Mariana tonight. Everyone saw it.”
His face falls as he stares into the glass of amber liquid. He doesn’t drink whiskey very often—or any form of alcohol for that matter—so he’s probably already feeling regret. “I shouldn’t have talked about it in front of everyone.” His voice is hushed.
“I don’t think you should have talked about it at all.”
His brow furrows, his dark eyes meeting mine. “I can’t be dishonest. That’s not how I raised my kids. I have to be real with her, and we both know she’s drifting. If we can’t get through to her soon…” He shakes his head.
“We?” I pin him with a hard stare. “I told you I’d talk to her. You know it’s not in my power to bring her back to God.”
Especially since I don’t think she was ever with God to begin with.
He leans forward, his eyes alighting. “Here’s the thing, though, I’m finally starting to see a change in her. Every night, I pray. I tell God the deepest desire of my heart. ‘Protect my children,’ I say. ‘Keep them with you, God.’” When he pauses, I inhale a breath to prepare myself for what I know he’s about to say.
“Ever since she started working with you, I’ve had this feeling.” He places his palm against his chest. “I think it’s a message from the Holy Spirit, Brandon, I really do. You’re the one who’s going to finally get through to her. I really believe it. She admires you. You’re a cool, liberal pastor, you know?”
I grunt. “It sounds like a pretty shallow reason to come back to Christianity.”
