“Faith.” He’s said my name before but this time he speaks it with a familiarity that ties a knot inside my chest. “Tell me. What’s my penance?”
“You have the wrong girl.” I struggle to keep my tone light when all I feel is Jude Mercer attaching himself to that knot and pulling me toward him.
“Not Catholic then?”
“Not by a long shot. I don’t think God has much interest in people like me.”
“I think that’s the whole point of God. He has interest in everyone,” Jude muses.
“Catholic then?” I ask.
This time he laughs. “Not by a long shot.”
I come to a fork in the road and stop the car, waiting for him to tell me which way to go. He doesn’t immediately. Instead we sit in silence gazing out at our choices. Finally, he points left. I take the sharp turn away from downtown, and my life, toward the old Victorian homes that sit on the bluff overlooking the port. It’s a ramshackle bunch. On the corner a massive Painted Lady holds court as the town’s reigning inn. Every part of her from her colorful exterior to her tended front lawn is immaculately kept. Only a few houses down another house is nearly falling apart, half of it torn down by the latest owner to run short of funds to complete the renovation.
“I love these houses.”
I don’t even realize I’ve spoken aloud until Jude asks, “Why?”
It’s an innocent question but the way he asks makes it feel intimate.
“They’re all different. Unique. Turrets and gingerbread and color. I grew up in a neighborhood that was nice but all the houses were cracker boxes, strategically dotted along the street so that we all got the same amount of yard.”
“You don’t seem like the type that fits into a box,” he observes thoughtfully.
“I don’t.”
“You’re making me wish I had bought one of them,” he admits.
“You didn’t?” I’m a little disappointed and I don’t bother to hide it.
“Would you like me if I had?”
“I like you.” But my words are too rushed. The result of being taught manners over mindfulness.
“You’re a terrible liar, Faith.” He turns toward the window and traces a rain drop as it snakes along the glass.
“I haven’t decided about you.” Now I’m the one confessing.
“We did meet under trying circumstances. It’s probably wise to distrust a man you meet at an NA meeting.” He hasn’t turned back toward me and somehow he’s reading me. Or maybe he’s known since the moment we met where my hesitation lies.
“It’s probably wise to distrust a woman you meet at an NA meeting,” I retort. Because that’s the real issue. Not just how we met, but that we were both there. We’re both broken and no amount of imagination can combine our pieces into a working whole.
“Isn’t one of the tenets of our group anonymity? As far as I’m concerned we met in the frozen food aisle. All I know about you is that you have a sweet kid, a fairly forward best friend, and that you are an absolute ray of sunshine,” he says dryly.
“Forward is a nice way to describe her.” I allow him to rewrite our history because I want him to, because I want Jude to be the man who treated my son like he was the most interesting person in the world. I don’t want him to be the man with the cocky comeback and harsh eyes that showed up to my support group. And maybe he doesn’t want me to be the woman who’s so fucked up that after years of sobriety she still finds herself sitting in a folding chair in a church basement once a week.
“I don’t know you at all, Faith. What’s your last name? Where did you come from? Are you married?”
He’s speaking rhetorically and yet I find myself answering him. “Kane. And I’m not married and I told you I came from the city.”
“I think there’s more to your story than that.” But he doesn’t push me for more information. Instead he turns the volume on the stereo up. “What does Faith Kane listen to?”
I shrug as the final catchy notes of Taylor Swift’s latest song fades away followed by a darker, more soulful tune. I don’t know the artist’s name, but I know the song. Maybe I don’t want to know it because the words she sings are my own. Without thinking I begin to sing along with her, forgetting for a moment that I’m in the car with Jude.
“I lost myself the day that I met you.
Now I’m not sure where I’m heading to.
And you’ll break my heart like the time before;
Until I don’t believe in true love no more.
I’m in pieces…pieces…”
Jude’s hand on my shoulder reminds me that I’m not alone, and I startle.
“It’s up here,” he says softly, pointing to a driveway.
“Sorry.” I slam on the brakes so I don’t miss the turn.
“No reason to be sorry. I liked listening to you sing, even if you got some of the words wrong.”
“I got the words wrong? I love that song. What are you an expert?” I’m starting to remember why I’d given him the nickname Mr. Arrogant in the first place. As soon as the car is in park, I turn to glare at him. “What did I get wrong?”