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I’m almost sure of it.
Mariana
As we drive home, Sofia turns to me. “Why did you say that to Brandon?”
I let out a sigh. She doesn’t have to tell me what she means. I knew this question would come, and there’s no use trying to placate her. “Because you aren’t gentle.”
I feel her scowl even though I can’t see it.
“I wouldn’t say I’m pointedly not gentle. Like, I’m as gentle as most people.” When I don’t say anything, she grunts. “It’s almost like you don’t want him to court me anymore.”
The word “court” makes irritation sizzle under my skin. It’s an antiquated practice that the evangelical church coopted as just one more way to control the sexuality of its youth.
Sofia is almost thirty years old, and she’s still being oppressed by it.
“Don’t you hate the fact that Dad orchestrated this whole thing?” I ask. “Brandon hardly knows you.”
“Yeah, because he wasn’t going to hit on his friend’s daughter. He kept his distance from both of us out of respect for Dad. I love that about him.” Her voice has a dreamy quality. “He has such strong principles.”
I snort. “Well, he is a pastor.”
“You of all people should know that doesn’t equate to high character.”
Her words settle over me slowly. I’m so used to coldness from her, it takes me a moment to realize there was no sarcasm or bitterness in the statement.
She’s trying to connect with me. She’s admitting that my frustration with the hypocrisy in the church has some truth to it.
She’s never done that before.
I smile. “He’s definitely not power hungry like a lot of pastors.”
“Not at all,” Sofia says, and for a moment, I’m not even jealous that she’s the sister Dad pushed on Brandon. This understanding between us is so heady, I almost tell her right now that I’m an atheist.
Of course I won’t. I’m not there yet.
But I feel like I could be soon.
Thanks to Brandon.
Throughout the day, I keep expecting the connection between Sofi and I to fade, for her to slip back into cool indifference. But something seems to have changed in her. She’s noticeably warmer and kinder, and she even offers to drive to the In-N-Out in Goleta to get us dinner.
“Guess who texted me last night?” she says after popping a fry into her mouth.
I’ve been so lulled into complacency that I didn’t see that coming. Something ominous vibrates over my skin.
“Who?” I ask, but I already know.
“Finn,” she answers with the faintest quirk of her lips, and coldness descends over my whole body.
Of course. This explains her cheerful mood. This explains her kindness toward me.
It had nothing to do with mutual understanding. It had nothing to do with Brandon, even.
It’s always about Finn.
I frown. “Why is a married man texting his ex-fiancée?”
That faint quirk of her lips morphs into what could almost be described as a sneer. “That’s exactly what I asked him.”
