Chapter 64
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Back at Kit’s house in the early morning, I bend over the driveway, hands on my knees, gasping for breath.
Longest run I’ve done in months. No gym here.
No weights, no bag to pound. My throat burned something awful in the cold, but I couldn’t wait for the sun to take the edge off.
Ever since Sophie’s text, my insides have twisted, begging me to be the guy she thinks I am.
The guy my friends think I am. I just don’t know how.
Ready to head inside, I rip my headphones out—and slam into a sound like a brick wall.
That voice.
Her voice.
Singing.
My body locks. In a split second I’m drowning.
Captivated. Gutted. She must be on the porch.
Can’t see around the big spruce, but I don’t need to.
Archie and Chelsea keep heaters and chairs out there.
Kit said they sit out every night and talk.
It’s no wonder they give off flirty best-friend vibes.
They’re living my dream, the one I fight tooth and nail to forget.
But Sophie’s in Chelsea’s seat, and it yanks me further under the wave.
I don’t trust my feet to move the right direction, so I hover like a creep, pressing back into the garage door to stay upright.
She sings—haunting, hypnotic. “Hold You Tight” by Dan Bremnes. A love song from her creator. A lullaby for the dark.
The song wraps around me, filling in holes and splitting others open.
It’s everything.
I lurch for the far gate, bolt to the back door. Let them think I’m breaking in. I can’t walk past her without telling her the truth.
That afternoon I change clothes again. Lately the only time I feel halfway normal is on a run.
My hands still, shirt halfway on. Halfway normal. Dark and Twisty. My breaths turn short and shallow. What Sophie used to talk about. Suffocating. Hollow. Unwinnable. My gut tightens. My throat tightens.
With trembling hands, I yank my shirt down and shoes on. Jog upstairs.
“Oh good.” Mia, deadpan from the sofa, typing on her laptop. “I’ve been worried you weren’t getting enough exercise.”
I grunt in response.
“Heart disease is a killer,” she calls.
Ignoring her, I round the corner, pass Archie’s closed office, almost reach the front door—
And stop cold.
Sophie starts down the stairs, dressed for a run.
Favorite joggers, wavy ponytail, oversized cropped hoodie pulled over her hands.
The hem rides up, baring a sliver of skin.
She moves slower now, like I do. Less bounce.
Less humming. Scrolling and jabbing on her phone, she doesn’t notice me. No doubt making a playlist.
The sight knocks the air out of me, sharp and familiar. Sophie.
I take a half step toward her. Then another.
I almost reach for her hand. Almost brush the hair from her face. Almost ask if she’s sleeping okay. Almost beg at her feet.
To forgive me. To take me back.
But I can’t. I shouldn’t.
She hits the last stair and freezes. I wrench my eyes away just in time, stagger back. The door creaks before I get to it. Kit blows past me, tears streaming, up the stairs. Levi steps in a beat later, pale. Like he’s just been punched in the gut.
“Kit?” Sophie calls. Her concerned voice washes over me.
Levi barely meets my eyes, then slips back out, clicks the door shut, and collapses in Chelsea’s chair. I follow him out to Archie’s.
After a long silence, the words break loose.
“We walked to her elementary school down the road. She’s been so happy.
Skipping and teasing. I slipped on the ice like an idiot and landed in a snowdrift.
She was laughing so hard and … straddled me.
Just a hug, I think, but—” He squeezes his eyes shut.
“I wanted more. Badly. So I yanked her off. Too fast. Too rough. It scared her. Hurt her feelings. So then I was trying to fix it, and somehow I let out that once you’ve done something, it’s a thousand times harder to say no. ” He presses fingers to his temples.
“There’s a cheery tidbit,” I mumble.
“She started asking all these questions at the worst possible time.” His head drops into his hands. “So many questions, and I just—” His voice breaks. “What if I lose her over this?”
I turn away, giving him privacy, and nearly lose my own composure.
Is the whole thing rigged? Do any of us stand a chance?
“She’ll come around, buddy,” I lie. “She’s not going anywhere.”
A few minutes later, Kit walks out the front door and meets my eyes.
I stand to head down the walk.
She lowers to the ottoman at his seat, right in his space.
“I’m so sorry, Kit,” Levi says brokenly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey,” she says gently. “I forgive you.”
I’m not even to the driveway when I hear her voice again.
“Levi? I love you.”
I stumble to a stop. Now? She says it now?
Silence.
I almost run back and whack him upside the head. Say it back. But I hear his deep murmur and drop my guard.
Thank you.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your soul.
Goose bumps line my arms.
But how?
Go up on the mountain and pray.
Back from my second run, the coast is clear on the porch, so I push through the front door and aim for Archie’s now-open office doors. “Excuse me, sir?”
Archie turns, shifting his over-ear headphones to one ear. “Austin, hey.”
“Is now a bad time?”
“I need to drop off for a few minutes,” he says in a business voice, then drops his headphones to his neck.
“Oh. I didn’t mean for you to—”
He interrupts with a firm shake of the head. “What’s on your mind?”
My mouth opens. Shuts. “Does it seem to you like God sets us up for failure? With the … dating boundaries stuff?”
He hums low, studying the corner of the room.
I shift on my feet, sweat cooling on my forehead and neck.
“You know, the prioritizing”—he holds up a thumb to start counting—“obedience, strategies for temptation, self-control … Those are all vital to learn before the stakes are so much higher in marriage.” He turns to his bookshelf, scans the spines, and hands one to me.
“I love this one. Celebration of Discipline. It’s spiritual weight lifting. Strength training for life with God.”
I wait for more, but he just watches me.
“Ah, strength training, sir?”
“Like fasting, for example. Practicing saying no to food has been game changing for me in obeying and sacrificing in other areas of my life. It’s indirect.
And somehow that helps.” He points at the book in my hand.
“All these practices were modeled for us by Jesus himself. Maybe pray about whether he has one for you to add into your routine.”
I stare blankly at the cover. White, hardcover, red letters. Weight lifting.
“Thank you, sir.” I turn to go.
“And Austin? Those exercises are to be done with God. Not just for him. Remember—you can’t out-weight-lift the Pharisees.”
My gut shifts, and my heart clicks into place.
With, not just for.