Chapter 61
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Levi said the crew is rewatching Now You See Me tonight.
At nine I drag my coward butt to MSC, banking on mid-movie focus.
But the second I plop down—as far as possible from Sophie—everyone hops to attention, like We’re super normal and welcoming!
Pats on the back, all of that. I’m shocked I haven’t been roasted yet.
This bunch usually pounces on anything remotely off, so I either look pitiful or scary.
Toss-up which is worse. But then … silence—the opposite of normal.
I pass Haymitch a bag of snacks. He digs inside like a four-year-old spotting sprinkles and comes up with the box of Cheez-Its I bought for him. Hands the carrot sticks and hummus to Levi, our resident weirdo. Then the tortilla chips and nuked white queso go down the row.
What? Everybody likes queso.
I yank the bill of my hat down. The less peripheral vision I have, the better. Doesn’t help though—her gaze burns a hole through my hoodie. I absolutely cannot let myself look that direction.
If this is trip prep, it’s already backfiring. I’ll be out of here well before the credits.
I can’t sit still. Austin slumps in his seat and shoves his sleeves past his elbows, like he forgot he doesn’t wear his uniform anymore. Too bad he looks just as good in sweats.
Is he okay? What does the queso mean? We’re all wondering, because no one’s talking at Dave Franco or the guy who played Mark Zuckerberg in that other movie.
No “Haymitch” cracks about Woody Harrelson.
No banter, no teasing. Nobody wants to scare off the stray cat who’s finally licking up the milk left out for him.
Except he’s not a kitten. He’s a saber-toothed tiger, and this sighting is as rare as it is dangerous.
Not for them, but for me. I cram a chip into my mouth and sit on my hands before they do something stupid.
We’re in the same smallish space for the first time since that morning at his house. My resolve crumbles with every glance, but he hasn’t turned his head once. I may as well be invisible. Like at home with my parents. Like in those dreams. The worst feeling in the world.
My usual solution for invisibility is looking my best. My parents care about that.
They’re proud of me when I look nice. The girls in high school squealed over new skirts and boots and makeup.
But here, a few seats from Austin, it’s obvious: trying for pretty makes no difference where it actually counts.
Cute clothes and hairstyles will get me nowhere with him.
The beauty he saw in me wasn’t a prize. It was a responsibility that pressed on his chest. A risk more than a reward.
Somehow it all works in reverse. The time he was most tempted, I looked my worst—wild hair piled on my head, no makeup, pajamas. My gut twists at the memory. His eyes danced around me like I was a work of art.
Why do we girls try so hard? Maybe it earns us some short-lived attention, but it wedges into our friendships. We scramble to win beauty like it’s a competition, but guys just like who they like.
Austin liked me. He fell in love with me. He could have won over nearly anyone, and he chose me.
But I turned beauty into leverage. And burned the rest to the ground.
Tension coils in me—the impulse to plant myself in front of him, spill every apology, promise I’ll never do it again. But I know better. It won’t help. Instead I jerk out my phone and jab at Janie’s playlists. Reciting the songs in my head loosens my grip.
“Closer” by Sanctus Real—saying yes to whatever grows my love for Jesus.
“Clear the Stage” by Jimmy Needham, especially the bridge—destroying any idol I’ve made out of Austin.
“Cloud and Fire” by Josiah Queen—a love song for my Guide in the wilderness.
I know them by heart. Shuffled with my favorite hymns, I’ve had them on repeat like a lifeline.
Or rather, as a rope to the Lifeline. To the Snorkel.
A reset of my perspective. A reminder of who he is and who he says I am.
That I can choose to keep him close. That he wants that as much as ever.
I bury my head in my knees and pray-sing silently.
Austin won’t even look at me, but Jesus is using his sister to throw me that rope. His sense of humor maybe.
Firmer in my resolve, I text Kit and Mia. I’m not watching this movie anyway.
Make it stop
Mia
Think his chair will be singed when he gets up?
Prob. He is Hades from Hercules right now
Mia
100 percent
Kit
But that’s a love fire, not a hate fire.
Don’t
Kit
Ok. I’m sorry.
You think so?
Kit
Yeah, I do. But that doesn’t mean he’ll drop the villain era act.
Mia
What Kit said.
Spring break should be interesting
When I laugh at Kit’s exaggerated grimace, I feel it—his gaze.
I whip around, but too late. Just the quick jerk of his head.
He looked.
The movie pauses. Huh?
Mia prances to the door, remote in hand, chin held high. This cannot be good.
“I’m interrupting our scheduled programming because we’re going to love on he who wishes not to be named.”
I leap from my chair and beeline to the door, but she’s already standing guard. I’m incarcerated.
“I want everyone—except she who may as well be named—to say one thing you admire about Austin. Unless you want in, Sophs.”
My head jerks forward. Admire? About me? “Have you lost your mind? I’m trying to lay low here.”
No one listens. They argue about who’s first.
Mia claps her hands. “We’ll start here closest to me. Haymitch? One thing for now.”
Everyone watches him stand like he’s giving a toast. I spin, wishing a magician’s exit would appear—smoke bomb, trapdoor, whatever.
“Samwise, my friend. If I can only pick one thing, I’ll say your faith is inspirin’. How you pray at the gym is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Or heard, I guess.”
Shoot. Didn’t realize those prayers were audible.
“I never thought to use my gym time for the Lord. You’re killin’ it, bro.”
Except, not anymore. Didn’t think it was possible, but my heart breaks further. “Thanks, buddy,” I mutter.
Levi rises. “Samwise, you’re the most sacrificial person I’ve ever met, always putting yourself last, never wanting recognition or rewards. You’re so much like Jesus.”
Not anymore. But something inside. Says I could be again. Unwelcome tears threaten, and I force them down. “Thank you,” I manage.
Kit’s next, smiling big. “Austin, I see how you take care of Levi and Haymitch and all the Flooders. You know what they need before they do. I want to be more like you.”
That one sticks. Fills in a crack in my heart. I can’t speak. Just a thankful nod.
“That’s my seat.” Mia oozes with authority. “I admire that you’re a humble leader. Everyone likes you, but you never let it go to your head.”
Another crack fills. I try to smile my thanks.
You’re still taking care of me? The way I’ve been?
Levi raises a hand, teasing. “Excuse me, that was two compliments. It was a challenge to limit to one, and you cheated.”
Mia lifts a brow. “May the well-liked portion be expunged from the record, Mr. Secretary.”
“Thank you,” he says, with one of his single nods.
I shake my head. These crazies. They’re the best around.
But Sophie stands, and I panic.
I shoot a silent, pitiful plead to Mia. She lets me through. The door doesn’t close behind me.
“We’re doing Sophie next,” Mia announces.
I could hug her for loving on Sophie, but my legs burst into a jog. Out of the building. I just … can’t.
We leave tomorrow. Mia’s stunt yesterday proved it—my hideout clock’s expired. I’ve been parked on top of my desk for twenty minutes—phone in hand, text drafted, back of my head beating the window—trying to work up the guts to send it to Sophie.
I need to pray. I know I do. But it feels like whispering through a locked door. The desk creaks as I shift. C’mon, Scott, just do it. This isn’t about you.
Hand through my hair, grip my neck. Sneak a glance at the ceiling.
Um. Hey.
So, Levi needs this. Help him? And help me be there for him?
Deep breath. Closed-eye tap: Send.
This trip is important to Jeeves. I don’t want to foul it up with awkwardness.
Phone clunks down. I shove it under some papers—
And jump at a ding.
Sophie
How can I help?
What?!
My insides twist. I dig my palms into my eyes like I can hold myself together.
How can she help? … How?
She could wear an invisibility cloak. Promise not to sing. Hate me. But she’d still be Sophie. And I’d still be … this. Not who I thought I was. Not what she needs.
I squeeze my phone, try to crush it all down. Why did I text her again? Worst idea I’ve ever had.
Can we meet up?
Can’t do that
Can we eat dinner at the same time?
No
My nos are flying. Bizarre.
I squirm on the desk, thumbs typing.
Just pretend I’m not there. Do your normal thing
You don’t need to get quiet just cause I’m in the room
K. I’m so sorry Austin. I made a terrible mistake and I’m so sorry.
Also
You’re being awful. We both messed up and you should’ve talked to me before disappearing.
Last thing. You’ve undone so much of my mom’s influence. Even if you quit me forever I can’t regret knowing you. You helped me see myself like God does, to believe what he says, and what it means to give up anything to be like him.
Tears crowd my vision. My thumbs hover, begging to spill my guts.
To beg for forgiveness, to lavish the praise she deserves.
But if I reply—even a fraction—she’ll read between the lines.
She might even try to fix it. Might not keep the buffer we need, especially this week, in the same house.
If she knew how much I love her, how much I long for her, would she try?
Would she corner me, make me look her in the eyes?
I couldn’t control it. Couldn’t take care of her.
Couldn’t make sure she gets what she needs.
I’d drag her back to me and my mess. And we’d end up here all over again.
Or worse, she’d end up stuck with this broken disaster.
Someone who can’t even take care of himself. Someone who can’t be trusted.
Desperation slams through me. To see her again. To beg for another shot. One more minute, then I’d let go.
So I chuck my phone across the room—straight into Levi’s trash can. As if that could undo the other thing I trashed.
Didn’t help.
I hop down, fish it out, power it off, drop it back in. There.
Levi clears his throat from the couch. “Halfback pass? Good aim, iffy form.” His eyes are heavy, but his mouth quirks.
I send him a head shake. “Receivers. Always divas. Do I get a carry-on tomorrow, or is this one of those backpack-only airlines?”
“Yes, carry-on. But I’m pretty sure you have enough baggage, buddy.”
I almost smile.
Headphones. Shoes. Run it off, then pack later.
“Can I borrow your phone for an hour while I run? I’m not turning that thing back on.”
He hands it over without hesitation. What a friend.