“Luce? I was just kidding.”
“Oh, no. I know.” I figure I have nothing to lose in asking him a question. He’s all about honesty, so he’d probably tell me if he didn’t want to answer. “Can I ask you something? Kind of . . . personal?”
“Sure.” I like how easily he jokes. And I like that he knows not to right now. In fact, he gets up to sit on the edge of the coffee table so we’re at eye level.
“Um, after everything with your sister, did that mess with your faith?”
I think of it as this complicated, barbed question, but he seems to be waiting for more than that. When I say nothing, he nods. “Oh. Yeah. Absolutely. Is that it?”
“That’s it.” Now I feel silly for making it out to be a huge deal. But . . . it is for me.
“One hundred percent.” He says this with utter clarity, in voice and in assurance. “You know, all these grown-ups were in my face, telling me Nessa was with the angels and that I’d see her again in heaven. Even at ten years old, I wanted to say: The fuck do you know? The more certain they were, the more I doubted them. Then, you know, a few real assholes mentioned that suicide would keep my sister from heaven. So, yeah. I was pissed at God and Jesus and probably also Mary and Joseph just because.”
I almost laugh, which seems to please him. “But you got it back? Believing in things?”
He presses his lips together. They’re kind of distractingly nice, his lips.
That’s another tick in the Heathen column.
“Yes,” he decides. “Just not in the same way.”
I can’t bring myself to pry anymore, but he rests his elbows on his knees anyway, settling in. “All that church stuff seemed black and white when I was little—easy. And now it’s gray, but I . . . choose it anyway, I guess. And I try to really get the point of it.”
And doesn’t he, though? I watch him with these kids, being a total servant. Giving over his summers to these campers because he understands them. He’s not perfect; I don’t even know him that well, and I know that. But he’s good. He’s deeply good, even without an unquestioned, flawless faith. And so maybe I can be good too. Maybe I can pick faith, even though it doesn’t feel effortless anymore. Before I even feel it forming, a tear drops from my eye.
“Oh, Luce. Hey.”
I brush it from my cheek. “Sorry. Gosh. Dramatic. Thank you for telling me that. It’s what I needed to hear.”
“Well, good,” he says, hesitant. “And if you need to talk . . .”
“I know.” I nod, feeling like an idiot.
He reaches for his now-finished trumpet. “Want me to play you something?”
“Yes, please.” He settles the mute into the bell of the horn. “But if you play ‘Amazing Grace’ right now, I will kill you.”
Instead, he starts in on a rendition of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” making me laugh. Which I know was the idea.
He holds the trumpet with one hand, using the other to cue me to sing along.
“No,” I say.
This only encourages him, jumping up from the couch so he can dance along to his own playing. I’m helpless with laughter, eventually calling lyrics out.
When he sits down, we both notice the familiar silhouette in the doorway.
Keely looks between us and, before walking away, mutters, “Nope. Don’t wanna know.”
The next few days, I feel so much more at peace. When I try to pray, I don’t feel like a crazy person talking to a man in the sky. It feels like me choosing to ask the God I’ve always known for guidance. Even if one of my prayers is Please help me stop being so mad at You.
I keep thinking that I’ll report this development to Jones—maybe even tell him about my mom—but he doesn’t show up at the rec room Monday night. Or Tuesday night.
When I see him in the breakfast line Wednesday morning, my heart tries to leap toward him. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to someone, been tugged toward them like gravity. He lifts one hand in a wave, but nothing more.
I resign myself to the idea that my questioning must have made him uncomfortable. But I can’t take it back, and I wouldn’t want to, anyway. If he can’t talk about faith stuff with me, then maybe it’s better this way.
Still, I’m so mortified that I duck into the Bunker as the third graders file into their shared class. I just don’t want him to avoid sitting by me or, worse, sit beside me and feel awkward about it.
But of course, as soon as I open the door, he’s there, cracking open a soda.
I blurt out: “Hey. I didn’t know—” at the same time he’s saying, “Oh, I figured you were—”
We both stop, laughing under our breath at our own awkwardness.
“It feels like I haven’t seen you much!” So I guess I’m still blurting things out. But hey, he’s the one who’s about honesty, right?
He scratches his fingertips through his hair, glancing down. “Yeah. About that. I, um—”
“Oh, it’s no big deal!” Great, now I sound like some pathetic girl who is desperate to hang out with him. Which . . . I am. But I don’t want to be.
“No, I want to explain.” He tilts his head up, as if summoning something greater than himself. With a big breath out, he says, “You have a boyfriend. So, I need to step back a little.”
My mouth drops open.
Henry’s eyes meet mine, dark and deep. “I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear. But I didn’t want you to think I’m mad at you or something.”
So he’s not mad at me or bored with me. “Okay. But I don’t have a boyfriend. You know that.”
“You have unfinished business, though. Right?” When I don’t deny it, he smiles sadly. “I’m not lookin’ to get hurt, Luce. That’s all it is. Okay?”
As if I would hurt him? Is he saying . . . that he . . . that I . . . He needs to take a step back because I have a relationship on pause? Because spending time with me might hurt him?
My time with Henry has shown me what crushes can be: giddy chemistry and near-instant familiarity. With someone who hears me, who will meet me where I am, without discomfort or judgment. Tell me the worst parts of his life without hesitation. And I just can’t go back to what I have with Lukas. Not now that I know how much your heart can be into something. Into someone.
It is maybe the bravest I have ever been in my life as I stand before Henry Morris Jones and say, chin lifted to meet his eyes, “Well, I don’t think you need to step back. Because I don’t think you’ll get hurt.”
I don’t look away or backtrack, even though my nervous system is threatening to ignite on the spot. Henry nods slowly, processing what I mean. And I do mean it.
“Okay,” he says finally, with the slightest hint of a smile. “Then I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
It is no different, that night. Just us, playing and reading and talking. Like he said, I have unfinished business. But when I return to Cabin 3A, I press my grinning face into the pillow and give myself over to dreams.