Avra's God

by Ann Lee Miller

  “It’s not just you. I’ve always felt our connection.”

  “I know. But it’s really awkward to talk about.” She looked out the window at the mass of moving headlights on State Road 44 and back at him. “Do you think there will ever be anything more for us?”

  “Like what?”

  “You said you wanted a shot at me, once.”

  What was she asking?

  “Do you still want it?”

  “Are you asking me out?”

  She blushed. He’d never seen her so flustered. “I just want to know if the possibility exists in your mind that we might end up together.” She took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and set it down.

  “How can I answer that?” He rubbed his neck. Kallie wasn’t a piece of fluff you blew off when you tired of her. She wound her tentacles around your soul.

  “Have you ever thought about it?” Kallie pressed.

  “Of course—a long time ago.”

  “What do you think now?”

  The answer materialized black and white in his mind; he had to tell her. “I’ve always cared about you, Kal. I always will.” He’d promised her the night they’d walked on the beach that he would never hurt her like her dad did—it didn’t matter that she hadn’t heard the words. He’d thought he’d love Tía forever, and he’d been dead wrong. He wasn’t going after Kallie until he was sure he would stick with her. At twenty-one, he still enjoyed the fan club twittering around him like little birds. He had no idea where his life would go. “I can’t see the future, Kal. If you want an answer today, it’s got to be no.”

  Kallie stared at him for a full minute. Finally, she nodded her head. “Then, this is good-bye—for good.”

  “Man, Kallie, you’re giving me whiplash. First, you’re talking going out, and now it’s good-bye forever. What’s wrong with some kind of middle ground?”

  “I’ve had a lot more time to think about this. I needed to know where you were on—” She gestured with her palms up, looking for the word. “—this thing, so I’d know what to do.”

  He could feel her withdrawing from him, and he didn’t know what to say to keep her close.

  She cinched control around herself, a cool detachment slipping over her features. She pulled the hair tie from her hair before it slipped off on its own. “I’m not going to throw myself at you like a groupie. I need to leave the past behind so I can go forward.” Her voice was firm.

  She stood and tossed two ones onto the table. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

  He turned his palm up to grip her fingers. “I don’t like it.”

  “You’ll be fine.” She smiled a thin, flat smile and was gone in a flash of white hair.

  He paid for their coffees in a daze. The only other time Kallie had voluntarily touched him was the night he’d dumped his dad story.

  As he walked out, his mind forked back to Tía. She had hijacked his senses. He’d never been drunk on Kallie’s presence. Still, a cord had always pulled taut between them. For all her beauty, Kallie was everyday to Tía’s exotic. So, exotic hadn’t worked for him. Maybe he should catch Kallie in the parking lot.

  But he wasn’t ready to settle down. And he wasn’t willing to trash Kallie’s heart by giving only part of himself.

  He got into the Neon and shut the door. Kallie had thrown down a gutsy ultimatum. She loved him. Loved him. He wasn’t buying her good-bye forever drama. Just see if you can get rid of me that easily.

  Avra opened her eyes to the dawn flooding through her window. She’d slept, if you could call it that, in her chair. Last week’s post-Fall Fling fight with Cisco had churned up so much anger, she didn’t know if she ever wanted to see him again. Would he even show up this morning?

  Last Saturday she’d seen the purple circles under his eyes, the unaccustomed stubble on his face—evidence that he cared. She rolled her head around to get the kink out of her neck. Somewhere, underneath her sleep-deprived stupor, Cisco’s jealousy held her in a stubborn embrace.

  Her stomach growled, and she pushed herself out of the chair to find something to eat.

  She clutched a mug of cocoa and an envelope of Pop-Tarts in one hand as she cracked opened the door. Cisco sat on the top porch step where he’d sat last time. She didn’t know whether to be happy or disappointed.

  She sat against the pillar on the other end of the step and shoved the mug toward him. He took a long drink and passed it back. She finished the cup. The Pop-Tarts sat between them.

  The garbage truck revved to the curb. The metal arms and canvas belts grabbed the can and flipped it aloft. The garbage can lid flung open and swung free on its hinges, dropping black sacks into the truck. The hugging arms jolted the can at the top of the arc and swung it down to the pavement with a bounce.

  Cisco eyed her warily. “So, are we talkin’ or not?”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “The future.”

  “Are you going to pressure me to make a decision?”

  Cisco let out a mirthless laugh. “Hardly. It’s not like I have a prayer after last week.” He stared hard at the garbage truck as it inched down the street. His eyes settled on her. “Tell me what you want to do with your life—teach high school. What else?”

  “When my face clears up, maybe I’ll get married.”

  Cisco rolled his eyes. “Maybe sooner. Kids—you mentioned them in Stavro’s the night I met you.”

  She bobbed her chin.

  “Kids are cool. Four’s good.” He stood and groaned as he stretched.

  Her gaze darted away from the swatch of Cisco’s stomach.

  He motioned her toward the swing. “Day care for the kids?”

  She curled into her usual corner of the swing. “When do you think about all this stuff?”

  “When I can’t sleep.”

  She eyed the circles under his eyes. But his jaw was smooth.

  “Day care?”

  She didn’t think she wanted a future with him, and she sure didn’t want to talk about one. “Don’t know.”

  “My mom was home with us.” Cisco put the swing in motion.

  Time to put him under the microscope. “What are you going to do when you grow up?”

  “Fix cars. You know I get my degree in the Spring.”

  “I was thinking in ten years.”

  “Thanks a lot.” He stopped the swing and looked at her. “Give me credit. I’m twenty-one, time to be a man. I want my own family. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He pushed the swing again. “What about money? Do you need a lot of money?”

  “I don’t think so, but I guess I won’t know till I get there.”

  Cisco weaved his fingers together. “Is there—is there any hope we’ll be together?” His eyes clamped onto hers.

  The seconds ticked by. Was there any hope left? She didn’t know.

  “Would you,” Cisco looked down at his fingers, still linked together, “maybe think about it—pray about it?” He looked at her, waiting, fear swirling in the deep brown of his eyes.

  “Okay.”

  Cisco reached for her hand, bowed his head. “Jesus—”

  She wanted to pull her hand away, but his prayer drew her toward him.

  “Avra’s about over me. Totally. If You want her to forgive me, You’re going to have to help her. And if You want her to give me a second chance—it’s going to take a miracle.”

  Jesse looked across the expanse of his dad’s desk at the thatch of kinky salt and pepper hair bent over a yellow pad. The Bible lay open in front of Dad. Commentaries and a Bible dictionary fanned around him. Rollerblades clack-clacked past the open window. The fan whirred overhead.

  His father looked up, startled. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  There were new lines in his father’s face he hadn’t noticed before. The day they’d fought over basketball probably had been the last time he’d really looked at Dad. Now that he looked, he saw the sadness in his father’s eyes.

  Jesse wouldn’t be here n
ow if he hadn’t been summoned. He slid down in the unyielding leather chair, not far enough to appear disrespectful.

  His father came around the desk and sat in the chair opposite Jesse. “Son, it’s past time we talked about basketball.”

  Jesse sat up. Two years of bitterness, banked only by a strict code of behavior, lay between them.

  “I’m a stubborn man. I thought I made the right decision taking you off the basketball team. I thought we had nothing to say to each other because we couldn’t agree.” He rubbed the back of his neck in a mannerism Jesse recognized as his own.

  “Your mother tells me to let you enjoy your youth. Just because I never got to play doesn’t mean I should deprive you.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Son, maybe she’s right.” His shoulders slumped. “All I know is I hurt you, and for that I’m sorry.”

  Jesse clawed at the flint of his anger. He hunched forward, his elbows propped on the chair arms, hands clenched at his waist.

  Dad held the connection without flinching. “Jesse, will you forgive me?”

  The minute changed on the digital clock on the bookshelf. A bead of sweat slid down beside Dad’s ear. The scent of exhaust blew in the window.

  Unmanly tears formed in Jesse’s eyes. He fought for control, embarrassed.

  Moisture pooled in Dad’s eyes.

  Jesse wasn’t sure how it happened, but they stood and his father crushed him against his shoulder.

  “Will you forgive me?” Dad’s voice quavered. “You and I have always butted heads—maybe because we’re both first-borns, I don’t know. All I know is I wasted two years of our lives.”

  The smell of starch, soap, and sweat filled his nostrils. His father hadn’t hugged him since he was a little kid. He remembered those smells. He took a deep breath. “Yeah, Dad, I forgive you.”

  Dad’s arms loosened and Jesse moved back a step, awkward but strangely free.

  Dad fished a folded handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. Jesse wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. They smiled tentatively at each other.

  So, Avra had prayed after all.

  Jesse sat on the hard bleacher seat, the reverberation of the ball rattling in his chest as the center pummeled it down court. This was the first game he’d been to since Dad sidelined him. Envy filled him like the scent of sweat in the gym. A guy from Communications 401 leaned on his knees on the bench, uniform immaculate, eyes riveted to the court. Even if the guy’s turn never came, at least he was on the team.

  “Wow, Jesse, you are so awesome on stage. I swear I could listen to you all day ...”

  Jesse nodded at the girl chattering beside him. She had a blonde halo of hair. Flitting from one subject to the other, she demanded little from him. Shelby belonged to Jenna’s fan club. Jenna had switched bands with the ease of a figure skater when Beach Rats belly-upped.

  Somehow he’d wound up at the game with this human firefly. He never thought he’d say it, but hero-worship got old. What he wouldn’t do for a conversation with someone who really knew him. A girl with long hair the shade of Kallie’s pushed through the double doors into the breezeway at the end of the gym. Maybe having someone’s tentacles dug into your soul wasn’t such a bad thing.

  The guys on his basketball team had all graduated. He’d been too angry to follow their seasons. Now he wondered what had become of them. The bond of sweat hadn’t been so deep after all. Melancholy bore down on him, brewing a song.

  “So Jenna says we gotta take good care of the band members so they can keep performing at the top of their game. We’re like the home front for you guys because you live in New Smyrna Beach. So, I told her I’d make sure you relaxed. You’re coming over to my place after the game.”

  Jesse followed the shooting guard as he went in for a layup. “Not tonight. I’ve got a song begging to be written.” Jesse jumped to his feet. “Yes!” He waved one arm over his head.

  He glanced down at the girl, the only person on their half of the gym not on her feet. She’d quit talking for the first time all evening. He’d hurt her feelings. Tough. He’d been through this drill enough to know he wasn’t going to her apartment.

  What if Kallie really did get him out of her system? What if she went to the game tonight with another Zack, or some perv—or worse yet, a guy she could actually go for?

  Avra scrutinized Kallie as she sat across the table from her in the Beacon. A stiff night wind whistled through the cracks around the doors and windows of the empty restaurant. “You actually blocked Jesse’s e-mails and Facebook, took him out of your phone, and returned snail mail unopened?”

  Kallie piled her tips on the table in front of her. Metal clattered in the kitchen. “I told you about Denny’s. Jesse understands that I have to move on.”

  “Have you?”

  Kallie wadded up her apron and stuffed it into her purse. “Every time I think about him, I sing a country song in my head. Jesse hates country.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  Kallie smiled ruefully. “I’ve gotten through all of Carrie Underwood, Taylor Swift, and now I’m halfway through Rascal Flats.”

  “In a week?”

  “I thought we were talking about how Cisco wants to marry you.”

  “What? I’m working on forgiving him. I’m not even ready to go out with him, much less imagine marrying him.”

  “I’m talking about what Cisco wants, not what you want.” Kallie pushed a quarter across the table to her. “He showed up on Saturday—even after you laid him out about STDs.”

  He was kind of wearing her down with his persistence.

  Kallie pushed another quarter at her. “Do you think he quizzed you about your career and life goals just to make conversation?

  She chewed on her lip. “Yes.”

  “Come on—kids? Day care?” Kallie shoved another quarter into the row. “And he said, like it was a no-brainer, that somebody might marry you before you could afford Amnesteem for your face. He wants to marry you. Duh.”

  Avra sat back. Her shoulder blades thumped against the chair back. “You think he loves me more than I-just-want-to-get-my-ex-girlfriend-back kind of love?”

  Kallie scooped the rest of her tips into her purse. “You’re the one who’s been hanging out with the guy. What do you think?”

  She pushed the quarters toward Kallie. “I don’t know what I think.”

  “You keep them. If there’s a happily ever after, you can glue them into your scrapbook.”

  “Since when do you believe in happily ever after?”

  “Since I see how he looks at you when you’re not watching.”

  Chapter 29

  Jesse leaned against his duffle bag, his shoulders against the back of the passenger seat of Zig’s sun-baked minivan.

  Mac slept, slack-jawed, on the middle seat. His knee flopped against Jesse’s arm and Jesse shoved it away. Mac shifted and settled. Bailey slumped against the glass behind the driver’s seat, his even snores leaving a circle of fog on the window around his nose.

  Jesse stretched out his legs, inching the drums toward the rear hatch. His butt had gone to sleep miles ago.

  The band’s demo CD played over and over until Jesse thought he’d throw up. Every missed note chiseled into his memory. Zig’s vocals grated on him. But, he’d signed on to play guitar and sing backup, so he couldn’t complain—at least not out loud. He breathed in and expelled the smell of dirty sweat socks.

  With their stream of weekend gigs—thanks to sound tech/manager Pooch Jones’ efforts, he’d paid off first semester’s tuition. Pooch drummed on the steering wheel with two fingers. He always slept in the hotel room while the others partied—which was why he usually drove. Jesse was more often than not asleep in the next bed.

  Jesse was living his dream. He’d been propositioned by girls up and down the Florida coast. He played music on stage. Why wasn’t he happy? He stared through the rain-sluiced rear window at occasional palm fronds poking over the top of the Mack truck behind t
hem. How did truckers stand the constant traveling? For him, it evaporated the pool of quiet where his songs germinated.

  Bowing to Kenton Zigler’s leadership had gotten old in thirty seconds. Not that Zig led poorly; Jesse had never been a good follower. Even the girls seemed somehow not right. The band lifestyle was inches deep when he’d spent his whole life up to his neck with people. He’d gone to school and church with the same faces, had the same friends. And he liked it that way, he realized.

  He had stayed out of God’s way because he knew God wouldn’t let him do what he wanted to do. But what if God fashioned him to do a specific thing—something he would enjoy doing? He rubbed the stubble on his chin. What if God’s idea for his future involved staying in New Smyrna Beach and music?

  Kallie’s face flashed in front of him, the soft veil of hair that begged to be touched, the full lips he had touched. A spot under his ribs ached. All or nothing—why couldn’t Kallie do casual? Kallie’s ‘nothing’ bites.

  Avra thumped her foot to the floor from the chair in her room and pulled her phone from her pocket. Cisco. Anger woke like a hibernating rattler and she jammed her thumb down on the off button, just stopping herself from hurling the phone at the cross on the wall. She owed Jesse a text. She’d do violence to her phone after she answered him.

  She would be fine for days, weeks, but the anger kept coming back. What was the matter with her? Other girls had reconciled with unfaithful boyfriends, married them, in a fraction of the time it had taken her to attempt basic forgiveness. And obviously, she hadn’t made any progress. Maybe she had actually regressed to the initial white hot anger stage.

  She’d stood Cisco up this morning for the first time and swung from rage to misery all day. She couldn’t even identify what he’d done to set her off.

  She crumpled to her knees in front of the cross, sobs racking her chest. God, if this is PMS, would You make me start in the next five minutes? Put me out of my misery. If not—if this is about forgiving Cisco—I’m too weak. I beg You to step inside and kill the bitterness snake. Please. Please.