by M. J. Fields
The fact that he’s concerned with my well-being warms my heart yet hurts it a bit, as well.
He sighs, hot breath against my neck, as he says, “Now widen those eyes and tell me where the hell you’re going.”
I look back at him, confused.
“Flow—” He stops when he’s about to call me the name he has since day one but corrects himself. “Jamie?”
My eyes fall to his soft lips then snap back up to his eyes. I step away. “I’m going back.”
“And I’ll be following you.”
After a few silent moments with him following behind me, realization strikes.
I look back at him, and he smirks.
“Tallest building on campus, just behind the big marshmallow in the sky. Total opposite direction of wherever the hell it is you’re going.”
I shake my head and look down.
We backtrack, and he’s beside me now. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see his hands shoved in his pockets, and he’s looking up.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Tonight especially,” he says, still looking up. “Normally, with all this snow, you can’t see the stars.” He looks down at me. “I think your God’s putting on a show for you.”
I laugh.
“What?”
“Sounds like something my mom would say.”
“Oh yeah?”
I nod. “Jamielynn, whenever in doubt, look around and ask yourself if a big bang could have created all this beauty.”
He nods, and we stop and look up.
When I finally look down, I see my tennis shoe has come untied then notice a bench a couple feet away. I walk over, and when I’m about to sit, he yells, “Don’t do it!”
“What is it?” Freaked completely out, I leap toward him, and he grabs me. His hands on my hips, my hands on his shoulders, inches from the proverbial apple.
He lets out a deep breath and whispers, “Fucking Cara.”
I let go of him and step back. “Your sister?” I look behind me, and when I see nothing, I look back at him.
“She’s got it in her head that she wants to come here next year, so we walked around, and she told me all this stupid shit she found out about SU. You almost sat on the Kissing Bench. You do that alone, and you’ll be alone the rest of your life.”
I laugh. “You nearly gave me a heart attack over some superstition?”
He pulls his hat down and lifts his chin. “No matter what’s happened between us, I don’t want that for you. But I also don’t want you to sit on that thing with old ‘Cox’ either.”
“I swear to God, Mitchell Moore, I have run into him twice. It’s not at all like that, so let it freaking go, will ya?” I groan.
He looks at me for a few seconds then nods. “Yeah.”
“Good.” I laugh.
“He steps over the line, though, and I’m—”
“Oh my God.” I turn and start to walk away.
He grabs my shoulders, and I laugh, realizing I’m going in the wrong direction again.
After walking for a few minutes, me following his lead now, we pass by the Hall of Languages again.
“Your sister tell you about that, as well?”
He nods.
“What does she want to study here?”
He smirks. “This week? Environmental Science.”
“Last week?”
“She’s wanted to be a vet for many years. You know, farm girl shit.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You have cows?”
“We have horses.”
“Oh, wow, so you take cowboy boots pretty seriously, then?”
He bends down, grabs some snow, and tosses it in my face.
I laugh as I jump back. “Do you have a ten-gallon hat, too?”
He grabs more snow, and I run backward.
His eyes go wide, and he grabs me, pulling me into him. We fall onto the ground as a car passes behind us, horn blowing in a long, loud stream.
“Fuuuck … Jesus Christ, Jamie, you need to be more careful.” His eyes are wild, terrified, as they look at mine.
“Okay.” I nod. “Okay.”
He closes his eyes and releases a long, deep breath.
“You okay?” I ask when he doesn’t move.
He opens his eyes and nods, eyebrows knit, as he clears his throat. “Of course.”
When he sits up, we’re nose to nose, and I’m in his lap.
He closes his eyes.
“Mitch,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he whispers back.
“I’m sorry.”
He opens his eyes and nods. “Me, too.”
When he leans in, I lose all my senses and close my eyes, waiting, wanting a kiss. When he grips my hips firmly, I let my lips part. When he lifts me up, I open my eyes, confused.
“Haven’t had sex since I met you. You sit there any longer, and I’m gonna pop wood, regardless of the fact that we are so far from compatible that you may as well be up there sitting on a star.”
I quickly get up, embarrassed by the fact that I thought he was going to kiss me and mortified how easily I would have allowed it, even after everything.
“You good?” he asks in an even and unaffected tone as he stands and wipes the snow off his butt and arms.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I joke.
We walk silently up Irving Avenue, past the hospital.
“Elle out with Logan?” he asks.
I shake my head. “She went home to make pies with her family for Thanksgiving.”
“Huh,” he says.
I look at him. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Logan wanted to keep it low-key tonight; thought you all were coming. He bailed, and I figured he went to hang out with her.”
I laugh. “You really thought she’d hang out with him?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Why’s that funny?”
I shake my head and don’t answer. Instead, I ask, “So, why aren’t you there?”
He shrugs. “Just didn’t feel like it tonight.”
“Not enough action, huh?” I half-joke half-pry.
“The guys tweeted the party out. Place is packed. Just wasn’t feeling it.”
“So, you just had all sorts of energy after playing a kick-ass game today to go for a run?”
His lips lift up in a smirk, and he nods.
“Logan out finding a replacement?”
He swings his head around and scowls.
“What? It’s a legit question. I mean, isn’t that what you—”
“He’s not me.”
I nod.
Still scowling, he says, “If he was after ass, he could have stuck around.”
Probably true.
“And, if he wasn’t into her, he wouldn’t be hosting Friendsgiving on Tuesday at our place and invited you all to come.”
“Huh?”
“Fuck.” He sighs as he looks at me. “Look, regardless of all this”—he motions between us—“and your dislike for Logan, he’s really a good guy. Just show up.”
“Just show up?” I laugh. “I don’t even know anything about it.”
“If she mentions it, encourage it, please.”
“And if he hurts her, I’m—”
“Trust me; he’s the kind of guy who’d hurt himself before he’d hurt someone that he seems to give a shit about.”
When I don’t say anything, he shakes his head. “I’m sucking it up for him; why can’t you just do the same for her?”
He’s sucking it up for him? What the hell does that even mean?
“Jamie,” he says my name like he’s begging.
“If she wants to go, and he wants me there, I will.”
“You gonna tell her about already knowing about it?”
I shake my head.
“Let it be up to her?”
“Oh my God, yes.” I shake my head.
He smiles, and we walk in silence, all the way to my door.
He reaches out and opens it. “One more thing?”
&nb
sp; I turn around and look at him. “Please don’t go out alone, Jamie. Not until all this shit with the notes on the door gets figured out.”
“Why do you care?” I ask immediately regretting the fact that I sound needy.
“Told you; I’ve never shared a cross word with someone I’ve—”
I gasp.
He shakes his head. “Up until you, of course. I can’t carry the weight of that, Jamie. We gotta be chill.”
The combination of my thawing body and the calmness felt in my heart after spending just that short amount of time with Mitch that generated realizations causes sleep to come easily. But it isn’t long-lasting.
In fact, I sleep like a baby and wake up feeling conflicted.
In a very human way, I have tried to guide my own destiny, yet the thought of being the ruler of one’s destiny contradicts its true meaning.
A simple Google search would tell you that destiny is a hidden power believed to control what will happen in the future, that one’s fate is truly divine.
Wrapped in José’s black wool coat, I cross Irving Avenue, pass the Dome, climb the tunnel-covered stairs, take a left, and head up the next set of stairs as snow falls gently from the sky, under the Falk archway. I follow the lightly dusted path to the quad.
Stopping at the bottom of the steps, I look up at Hendricks Chapel and feel a calmness cover me like the snow covers the ground beneath my feet. I take a picture and post it to my IG account that’s linked to my Facebook account, knowing Mom and Dad will see it.
Walking in—late, might I add—I hear the booming voice of the minister addressing the congregation.
“Where is God?” She pauses and walks across the stage. She asks the question again. “Where is God?”
From the pews, someone says, “Heaven,” another person says, “In our hearts,” another, “In our souls,” and another, “Everywhere.”
“All right, all right.” She nods, smiling, and points to the first person. “He’s in Heaven.” To another. “In our hearts.” Another. “In our souls.” And the last. “Everywhere.”
She crosses the stage and asks another question. “What is God?”
A few people answer love, everything, the alpha, and the omega.
She nods to each one as she walks to the pulpit. “God is omnipotent—all-powerful. He is omnipresent—always present. He is omniscient—all-knowing. He’s in our hearts, our minds, our souls. He is everywhere.
“Yet, we seek answers to the most important questions in our lives from Google. We even trust it more than Grandma. We seek affirmations from others, from Facebook thumbs-up. The more hearts and comments on IG mean, the more important something is.” She places her hand over her heart.
She then points to someone. “God is everything, yet we are a society of people who seem to no longer need our Creator, not when we get instant likes, instant hearts, instant advice with just a few keystrokes. We no longer have to humble ourselves, admitting we are not God; we are not unknowing. We don’t even have to seek advice from a doctor about a rash, or a mechanic about a tic-tic-tic of an engine.
“We are a society that applauds the bravery of women who call out an ex, missing the point that, no matter how many hearts or likes she gains, her heart is breaking, and she’s allowing herself to be so vulnerable when, in reality, she needs a hug, y’all. She needs a cup of coffee with a friend. She needs advice from this book.” She holds up the Bible. “She needs to meditate on the word, not get instant approval from the masses, the flocks, the sheep who spew righteousness when it suits them then post a picture of the new shoes drop-shipped to her doorsteps, made in a sweatshop where people”—she pauses—“people are treated like they are less than nothing.”
She closes her eyes and looks up. “Almighty God, please do not let me get started on Amazon.”
We all laugh.
“We treat celebrities like gods when, along with the PR they have created …” she pauses and repeats, “created a façade, giving you a false idol. We hold men and women in high regard when they post shiny new toys, or those who build empires and provide us with material things that fill a void almost instantly. These people, they give us insta feelings, with their insta noise. Noise that pulls us from thought, from asking, from hearing answers—real answers—ones that come from within, from our Creator, God. The Creator of all things, even of those who create, the one who is omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient.” She crosses the stage silently, allowing what she just said to sink in.
“I asked you where God is, and we agree He’s everywhere. I asked what He is, and we agree He is everything. Now I’m going to ask you to close your eyes and consider this question without the outside world’s overpowering noise to taint it. What is God’s greatest gift?”
The room is silent.
“1 John 4:8 tells us, ‘anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.’ Colossians 3:14 tells us, ‘above all these, put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.’ Proverbs 10:12 reminds us, ‘hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all offenses.’ 1 Peter 4:8 tells us, to ‘keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.’ We’re all sinners. 1 Corinthians 13:13 says, ‘now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.’
“The verb love is written in this book”—she holds up the Bible again—“three hundred and forty-eight times, because it is the second most important gift God has given us. I can guarantee we give our false idols, or friends, the heartbreaking rants more ‘noisy’ hearts and thumbs up, than three-hundred and forty-eight times in one week’s time, yet it’s not felt like a hug, a moment, a kind word, a smile. So, as we go on about our day, our week, our month, our lifetime, do it giving love in the way God intended it to be given—from the heart and from the soul, to those online, but also those he puts in your path.
“I leave you with this; 1 Corinthians 16:14 tells us, ‘Let all that you do be done in love.’ So, let’s.”
Mitch
I haven’t slept for shit all week. Definitely been trying, though. I need to let this shit happen. I need to feel what I’ve blocked for years now. I need to wallow in my shit, marinate in it, because she deserves more … than me.
I should have left for home after the game. That way, I wouldn’t have run into her the other night and not have that vision etched into my memory, the memory of how fucking angelic she looked as she spun around, hands raised in the air, looking at the falling snow the way I want her to look at me.
The difference is snow is pure and deserving. Me? I’m contaminated and should be avoided like acid rain.
Now I’m holed up in my room because, with every thought being on football or Flower, I haven’t even thought twice about the fact that I lay with a girl who happens to be knocked up, and she’s besties with my bestie and in our kitchen right now.
I take another drink of Jack and look at the picture I snapped of Jamie coming out of the rest stop bathroom, the one that feels like I took it a million years ago.
Logan walks into my room. “You gonna be part of this or what?”
I would love to answer, “Or what?” but him and everyone else in the house have busted their asses to make this perfect for Elle.
“What still needs to be done?” I ask, throwing my legs over the side of the bed.
He looks me up and down. “Things.”
“Perfect,” I answer, following him out the door.
Grabbing ice out of the fridge to pour my Jack over, Logan takes the glass from my hand. “Gonna need you here, not at the bottom of the bottle.”
Bottom of the bottle looks a fuck of a lot more comfortable, but, “Fine.”
I look over at Keeka, who’s arranging vegetables on a tray. She catches me eyeing her belly. Our eyes meet, and she rolls hers, whispering something.
“Need help?” I ask because I fucking should.
She shrugs. “Do you?”
“Keeks …” Logan chuckles. “Chill.
”
And … she hates me. Could be a sign.
When Elle walks in, I nod toward the door, and Logan turns around, and stands as still as stone. I grab a drink, knowing he won’t be acting like the alcohol police, and step left so I can see if she came.
She did. She came. She came looking like an angel in a cream sweater dress that hugs her stunning curves with a pie plate in her hand. They all have one as a matter of fact.
Elle sets hers in front of him. “I brought you pie.”
When I see Jamie and the other two try not to giggle, I hide my smile behind the beer bottle as some of the other guys snicker.
“Looks okay.” He shrugs nonchalantly like he hasn’t been dreaming of her pie for months.
“I haven’t tasted it yet, but I’m sure it’s going to be amazing. Best pie ever.”
The guys snicker louder, and Logan’s grip tightens on the counter.
Elle shrugs. “It’s actually the very first time that I—”
Logan steps back and quickly moves around the counter that is between them. “You got a fucking minute?”
Jamie and the girls laugh as Elle giggles, following behind Logan toward his bedroom.
When our eyes meet, Jamie’s red lips curve up slightly, and I lift my chin and mouth, “Hey.”
A smack to the abs and I swing my gaze toward the source.
“You’re in charge of basting those birds, right?” Keeka scowls.
“Guess I am.”
She shoves the turkey baster in my face. “Get basting.”
“Yeah, get on it, Daddy,” Downs jokes.
I glare at him and I see Jamie look between the three of us.
Fuck, I think, as I turn around and head toward the oven.
“Buns in the oven?” Tank jokes.
“How old are you fools?” Keeka snaps. “Twelve?”
Before anyone responds, I hear Elle laugh. “What are you doing?”
Logan’s voice booms from behind me, “Whatever you want to wear in my closet is good.”
I hear her gasp and look back at her in his doorway.
Logan huffs, “Condition three, unless you want this to end horribly. I’m dead serious.”
“You don’t get to tell me how to dress!” she snaps.