The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3)

by Andrea Randall

  The floors are a dark hardwood, and the walls and linens are a crisp white. It’s clear that the star of the show here will be the food. And I am so hungry. I shouldn’t have come to a place like this on an empty stomach.

  “You’re fidgeting,” Jonah remarks softly.

  “Jonah, I don’t know how to tell you this,” I start. His face freezes, but I chuckle. “I’m really nervous.”

  He exhales for a long time. “Me, too.”

  We both let ourselves laugh nervously for a few seconds before our waiter comes to take our drink order. I order a club soda with lime, and Jonah orders the same.

  “You like that, too?” I ask when our waiter vacates our space.

  Jonah shrugs. “Kind of, but I didn’t really know what else to order. I’m bad at this, aren’t I?” He lowers his head and his cheeks pink with embarrassment. It occurs to me that Eden never mentioned any nerves on Jonah’s part. He was always “smooth” and “put together.”

  I bite my lip and grin. I’ve made the boy come undone.

  “You’re perfect,” I admit. Because in his imperfections, Jonah Cross might actually be close to such a standard. “Have you been here before?”

  “No, but there’s a restaurant like this near my house.”

  I grin, wondering how many lucky girls have fumbled their way through first dates with Jonah Cross. I don’t ask, though. I want to be the center of his attention for tonight. It’s nice to be at the center of attention that doesn’t involve scandal. Though, to be honest, me dating a preacher’s son is a sort of a scandal all on it’s own.

  You’re a preacher’s daughter…

  Glancing at the menu, I’m relieved to see that the French menu items are helpfully subtitled in English, as I haven’t taken a single language class in a year and a half. Cheese I understand, but some of the descriptive words are buried in the deep recesses of my brain.

  We start with an appetizer of baked Brie with melon and berries and, I have to tell you, it’s divine. The hot, creamy, slightly bitter cheese swirling through raspberries and strawberries is enough to almost make me moan out loud. Cafeteria food can really trick a person into thinking it’s actually food.

  “This is like Heaven.” I say between bites.

  “I hope so,” Jonah answers. “Here, you take the last bite.”

  Jonah loads his fork with puff-pastry encrusted Brie and extends it toward me.

  My lips part and I catch myself needing a deep breath. He’s just… offering me his fork. His face is flushed as I lean forward, opening my mouth just wide enough to let him slide the hot bite in. I close my mouth and forget to chew for a second, staring at Jonah who has forgotten, it seems, to lower his fork.

  Leaning back, I work the food around my mouth in slow motions, savoring more than just the flavor of the bread and cheese. I shoot a quick glance down the alley of tables and catch eyes with the camera girl while Silas seems to be intently staring at the table, giving us the respect of privacy. Her quick eyebrow arch and half-playful pointed look tells me she saw our interaction, but I’m too blissed out to care. I know the physical contact rules of this place like the back of my hand because I’m a girl who wants to be kissed, and am aware that it’s allowed. Fork sharing isn’t depicted in detail in the rule book, but I’m sure we’re safe.

  “Thank you,” I say, refocusing on Jonah, who looks like he’s recovered his senses.

  Before we can come up with any graceful conversation to follow that last bite ordeal, our food comes. I wanted the seafood dish, but since we’re far, far away from any ocean, I questioned the validity of such a plate. So, I went with the braised portobello mushrooms topped with mashed potatoes and Gruyere cheese. Jonah ordered the rib eye special, which fills my senses as the plate hits the table. It’s topped with horseradish and a Bordelaise sauce that smells like the rich butter and peppery wine used to make it.

  “This is so good,” I say slowly after a bite. “Yours smells fantastic.”

  Jonah nods. “This beats Mission Hall any day of the week.”

  I grin. “Tell me about your family,” I make myself say. This is a date after all. I know where he’s from, but not where in the emotional sense. “Dad’s a pastor, I know that. Do you have siblings? I can’t for the life of me remember.”

  Between bites, which forces me to focus on his mouth, Jonah considers my question. “I have an older sister, Kylie, who is twenty-one.”

  I furrow my brow. “Does she go to school here? I haven’t seen her.”

  He shakes his head. “She goes to Dartmouth.”

  I widen my eyes. “Wow. Good for her. That’s an excellent school.”

  Lucky. I have an acceptance letter from them in my desk drawer at home.

  “Why’d you think she went here?” Jonah sips his club soda and leans back.

  “I just… kind of assumed this was a family sort of school. There’s a much more specific demographic that attends here, and there aren’t many schools like it.” I talk faster, worried that I’ve offended him via categorization. “I mean… people can go wherever, I guess… I just…”

  Jonah chuckles. “It’s okay, I’m just teasing you. My parents actually wanted her to go here. Or Bob Jones. Or anywhere other than a big university.”

  I laugh. “Dartmouth has like half the undergrads as this place.”

  “I know. They mean big in like…”

  “Ideas?” I blurt out, then cover my mouth. “Sorry.”

  “I’d be offended if you weren’t exactly right, Kennedy. You don’t offend as many people as I think you think you do.”

  Despite sounding a bit Mad Hatter-like at the moment, I find comfort in Jonah’s words. “Do I offend you?” I challenge, biting my lip again.

  He swallows hard. “Not in the least. I find you challenging, but not offensive. It’s not even because you have all of these other ideas about the way things should work, it’s that you admit you don’t have a damn clue.” Jonah’s voice quiets as he nears the end of his sentence. He leans forward. “That’s what attracts me to you, aside from your stunning beauty.”

  I mirror his lean, resting my elbows on the table. “That I don’t know anything?” I tease in a whisper.

  Though I thought it was impossible, Jonah leans even closer. I can feel his breath on my lips. “That you don’t think you know everything.”

  My heart is racing. His mouth is so close I can nearly taste his thirty-dollar steak. “Jonah,” I whisper, feeling dizzier by the moment.

  “Yeah?”

  My eyes flick upward and he’s staring right at me.

  “I’d like very much to kiss you. Right now.”

  The tip of Jonah’s tongue traces a thin line of moisture along his bottom lip. “I’d like to be the one to kiss you, Kennedy.”

  If he says anything else, I don’t hear it. I just feel. The heat of his hand as his fingers curl around the side of my neck, and the warmth of his lips and the smoothness of his skin when his mouth connects with mine. And, in the back of the tiny French restaurant, Jonah and I share our first, fantastic kiss.

  …Two, three…

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Hangover

  Matt

  “Jonah, you going to Pastor Roland’s house for the show tonight, or are you heading to the Union?”

  Jonah stretches out on the couch in the floor lounge, clicking off the TV. “Roland’s,” he says, quite relaxed.

  “Have fun last night?” I chuckle, forcing myself to ask the question as I would any other guy who’s gone out on a date with a hot girl.

  Jonah sits up, resting his forearms on his legs. “It was great. Thanks for being so cool about this, by the way.”

  I hold up my hands in defense. “Nothing to be cool about, man. Kennedy’s a great girl and you’re an awesome dude. She’s my friend. Just don’t hurt her or I’ll have to bury you.”

  “I believe you,” he says, chuckling as he stands. “How’s… everything going for you?”

  Purity. Lu
st. Temptation. Masturbation. That’s what lives in the pause between his words. I don’t regret having Silas and Jonah as accountability partners as I work through my lust issues—the history of lust in my family runs deep and I’m desperate to overcome it for whoever my future wife is. Wherever she is, she deserves better. But, it’s a little awkward talking about it with Jonah now. I know he would never say anything to Kennedy, but… I don’t know. Let’s just say I plan to lean more on Silas during the course of Jonah and Kennedy’s dating.

  What if they…

  Internally, I shake my head, not letting my thoughts run down the aisle of a church with Kennedy dressed in white walking toward Jonah.

  “Things are fine. Solid,” I finally answer. “Keeping it between the goal posts.” I bring in football, which thankfully Jonah understands, since Silas has limited knowledge of the sport.

  “Awesome,” he says with a firm slap to my shoulder. “I’ll keep praying for you. See you tonight?”

  I nod. “Thanks… yeah. See you tonight.”

  Jonah disappears down the hall to his room and I find myself wondering about his date with Kennedy. What did they talk about? Did he hold her hand? This isn’t just about Kennedy—it’s about me needing to get my thoughts right about all women. None of them are mine, including Kennedy. I don’t need to be watching them naked on the TV or a stage, and I certainly don’t need to be thinking about whether or not they hugged or, God forbid, kissed one of my best friends.

  It’s none of my business, but as soon as I start thinking it is, I risk getting myself into trouble. So, I make a beeline down the opposite hallway to Silas’ room. He’s proven excellent at helping me redirect my thoughts to where they need to be. Away from lust and temptation and toward God, my family, friends, and schoolwork.

  As always, I just turn the knob and walk in, since Silas and his roommate always tell everyone to just “come on in,” because they’re two of the friendliest people I’ve ever friggen met.

  Except, I’m betting they wished they locked the door today when I find myself standing in their doorway and they find themselves lying—fully clothed—in Silas’ bed next to each other, Silas’ head on Brett’s chest.

  ***

  “Shit!” one of them hisses as they scramble out of the bed and I turn on my heels, mumbling a garbled apology, and walk back to the lounge.

  “Matt!” Silas calls after me, hurrying into the hallway, running his hand over his hair.

  I hold up my hands. “Sorry, dude.” My hands are shaking so I shove them in my pockets.

  Silas looks paler than usual as his eyes plead. “Can we talk about this?” He gestures to his dorm room, eyes darting everywhere.

  My mouth opens, but I take a second to say something. We certainly can’t continue this conversation in the lounge, but I don’t know if I want continue it at all. Do we need to talk about it?

  Maybe he needs to talk about it.

  “Okay,” I finally say, wishing for a number of reasons that Kennedy was here. From her history, I gather she knows how to handle these kinds of situations. But, even though it’s killed me to keep this secret from her, I have. It’s just none of my business.

  Well, it wasn’t. Until I walked in on it. Lord knows what I would have walked in on if it had been a few minutes later. Or earlier. Whatever.

  Lord.

  Yes, the God piece. I think about that on the too-short walk back to Silas’ room. Of all the things I learned at every youth group and camp and even in some sermons.

  Sin.

  Clearing my throat before entering his room, I shake those thoughts from my head. This is Silas. He’s my friend, as unlikely as it seems, and he looks scared.

  “Hey,” Brett says when I get in there. Looking far less terrified than Silas.

  I wave and stand awkwardly while they seem to silently converse.

  I’ve long assumed Silas was gay—or at least bisexual. That’s part of the reason I wanted him as an accountability partner. Not just because he’s a strong Christian, but because I knew he wouldn’t tempt me to looking at girls because he never looks at them.

  It didn’t take me—or most of the guys on our floor—long to figure it out about him. That “rocks” thing he does with Bridgette is great, and a lot of people do similar things, but every once in a while as he “warned” her about a guy that she shouldn’t be looking at, I’d catch him take a long look. Far more than a casual, passing glance.

  It did, however, take me a while to bring it up to anyone else. In an all-male setting anywhere, discussion of homosexuality is touchy—let alone in a place like this. I had to do my research on my floor mates to determine who was a safe ally to run my theory by, in case we should ever need to help him, or whatever.

  Jonah was the prime candidate. Honest, trustworthy, and rational. Not a nasty or violent fiber in his being. He’s the only one I’ve talked about it with, and honestly we haven’t talked about it much. He’s told me a few other guys have also brought it up here and there, and while we haven’t all sat around and had a meeting about it, it just kind of seems like it’s an unspoken but accepted facet of our floor makeup. There’s a gay guy. Two of them, who happen to be roommates, in fact.

  Makes a lot of sense why they requested to be roommates, I guess. Though most of us just requested friends…

  To be sure, there are several guys on our floor who don’t know this as fact, and who I literally pray never find out. For Silas and Brett’s sake, and theirs. Because I’d hate to have to do time for pummeling a bigot who tries to hurt one of my friends.

  “Uh,” Silas finally starts. “I just… I don’t know what you saw, but…”

  “Nothing I didn’t know already.” It just comes out. It’s the truth, but I didn’t mean it to cause Silas to turn that shade of grey.

  Brett leans into him. “I told you.” Silas leans away, almost wincing.

  “Does everyone know?” he chokes out.

  I raise my eyebrows and eye Brett—a star member of the CU basketball team. Long and lean like Silas, but with a bit more muscle. Not as big as me, but he definitely takes care of himself.

  “No,” I say, as if Silas should realize this since he hasn’t been harassed. “Not everyone knows. I don’t talk about it with anyone. The only person I’ve talked to about it with is Jonah.” I hesitate to say even that much, but I don’t want to lie, and Jonah’s nonthreatening, which I hope somehow gives Silas some comfort.

  Silas sits on the edge of his bed and hangs his head. Taking a deep breath, he looks up at me with a lost look.

  “This doesn’t change anything, Silas,” I say, sitting on the bed next to him. I never imagined I’d be in a situation like this, so I’m just kind of going through the motions and begging God, if he’s listening to me anymore, to help me do and say the next right thing.

  “It changes everything,” he whispers. “I’ve been lying to you this whole time and posing as a worthy accountability partner for you—”

  “Posing? I asked you even after I suspected…” My heart thuds like crazy in my chest as I talk.

  “Sexual immorality is not a qualification of an accountability partner.”

  Brett crosses his arms, clearly annoyed as he taps the back of his head against the wall. “Si, we’ve been over this…”

  Silas stands, pacing the length of the room. Agitated. “It’s still sin. And the more people who find out, the more watered down my testimony.”

  They’ve clearly had this conversation before, and I feel like an eavesdropper despite being invited in. “Your walk with God is your walk, no matter where it takes you, Si,” I say.

  Brett huffs and heads toward the door. “I’m taking a walk,” he says before slamming the door behind him, leaving Silas and I in deeply awkward silence.

  “He’s upset,” Silas finally says. “Because I’m ashamed of what I am.”

  I want to tell him he didn’t look that ashamed. Not grotesquely. But that when I walked in their room, he looked like someone
lying next to someone he cares about. I’m surprised at how unfazed I am about it, but I get it, somehow. The need to care for and be cared for. But I don’t say any of that to Silas. Because I understand the shame, too. I want to tell him that the months I spent paying to watch women undress was about as immoral an act as one can get, but I don’t say that either. Because both of us come from places where what he’s doing isn’t okay, and I haven’t been armed with the vocabulary to tell him it doesn’t bother me. I have no scripture in my head to comfort him, only to confront him. Which I don’t want to do.

  I’m really wishing Kennedy was here. She’d know what to say. Or do.

  “Self condemnation doesn’t get any of us anywhere, Silas,” I start with. “You saw what happened to me…”

  “You know it’s different,” he hisses, growling at himself.

  And he’s right. It is. Even if it’s not. Even if we’ve been taught that “sin is sin,” there’s always sin counted worse than others in different communities. Always. Murder, divorce, and sexual immorality rank far higher on the “yikes” scale than taking the Lord’s name in vain, vanity, greed, any of that.

  “I’ve tried to change,” he says, nearly in tears. “I’ve prayed for healing. To be different.” He shakes his head. “But it’s not working. I think I might need some stronger therapy, or something.”

  “What does Brett think?”

  “He’s comfortable with who he is. He says this is how God made him. That God knew he was gay when he made him.”

  I nod, taking all of this in. “And what do you think?”

  Silas looks forward, unblinking. “That people wrapped up in any kind of sin can take it for granted—for who they are. I don’t believe God makes mistakes, Matt. People do. And if He said homosexuality is wrong, then I know He wouldn’t make anyone that is an abomination.”

  I pull my head back at the word. Abomination. Such a fire-and-brimstone word used with gusto throughout many churches to drive home how deeply awful something is. A word thrown like a thousand daggers at my father by some members of his own church as he struggled with his own brand of sexual immorality.