Chapter 5 #2
“You do not have a list.”
“Yeah huh.”
“Harper.” His voice drops into that low, unbothered register that makes me want to argue with him on principle. “You know Jesus knows when you’re lying.”
“Then I’ll repent later.” I wave a hand at the windshield even though he cannot see me. “Anyway. Seriously, Micah. Yes or no.”
Silence. Then another grunt, and a noise that sounds like he’s setting down equipment, and then the ambient gym sounds fade slightly, like he’s stepped outside. A door closing. Quieter now.
“I guess I can do it.”
I sit up straight. “Really?”
“But I have some terms and conditions.”
I settle back into my seat. “Of course you do. When can we go over them?”
“Can you do lunch after church on Sunday?”
“I’m serving at nine-thirty and eleven.”
A pause that feels pointed. “I didn’t approve that.”
“I don’t need your approval.”
“Harper.” There’s something in the way he says my name when he means business, careful and direct, that makes me pay attention even when I don’t want to. “You’re serving both services again?”
“Someone has to.”
“Someone does,” he says, “but it doesn’t have to be you every single week. When’s the last time you actually sat in a service?”
I open my mouth. Close it. The honest answer is that I genuinely cannot remember, and I am not about to tell him that.
“I know enough,” I say instead.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Micah.”
“I’m serious. There’s a difference between serving the church and being fed by it. You can’t keep pouring out if you’re never sitting down long enough to—”
“Can we please focus on the gala?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. I soften it slightly. “I appreciate the pastoral concern. Truly. But I know my faith and I know where I stand with God, and right now what I need is for you to tell me your terms and conditions so we can get this settled.”
He is quiet for a moment. Not the sharp, silent kind. The kind that means he heard me, filed it away, and has decided this is not the hill he wants to die on today.
“First service ends at ten forty-five,” he says finally. “I can do lunch after that if you want to meet me there.”
“Fine,” I say.
I can hear him breathing—still a little heavy from the workout. My brain unhelpfully produces an image of him outside the gym, t-shirt probably damp, running a hand through that already-unreasonable hair. I shove the thought sideways immediately.
Absolutely not.
“So Sunday,” I say, snapping myself back. “Lunch after the first service.”
“I’ll text you where.”
“I’ll text you where,” I correct. “You’re the one doing me a favor. The least you can do is let me pick the restaurant.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I pause. “Was that so hard?”
“Incredibly.”
I grin despite myself. “See you Sunday, Sanders.”
I hang up before he can get the last word, the only way to reliably end a conversation with Micah, and I’m still smiling as I pull into my apartment complex.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the couch.
The remote is exactly where I left it—wedged between two throw pillows—and I grab it without thinking, flipping on the TV.
The screen lights up with the familiar intro to The Bachelor.
I should turn it off.
I know I should.
This show is... well, it’s not exactly spiritually edifying. It’s dramatic and shallow and promotes a version of love that’s about as real as the rose ceremonies. Ivy’s mentioned more than once that she doesn’t watch it anymore—says it messes with her perspective on relationships.
And she’s probably right.
But I don’t turn it off.
Instead, I pull a blanket over my legs and settle in, letting the drama wash over me. Two women fighting over the same guy. Someone crying in a confessional. The lead looking tortured as he hands out roses like they’re life-or-death decisions.
It’s ridiculous.
And I can’t look away.
Halfway through the episode, my eyes drift to the coffee table.
My Bible is sitting there—right where I left it after church on Sunday. The leather cover catches the light from the TV, and I feel that familiar tug.
One that says: you should read it.
The one that whispers: when’s the last time you actually opened it?
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then I look back at the TV.
The contestant on screen is sobbing now, mascara running down her face as she talks about how she’s ‘never felt this way before’ and how the lead is ‘everything she’s ever wanted’.
I should turn it off.
I should pick up my Bible instead. Spend time in the Word. Pray. Do literally anything that doesn’t involve watching strangers make out on national television.
But I don’t.
Because it’s easier this way.
Easier to zone out. Easier to let the noise fill the silence. Easier to avoid the uncomfortable questions that always seem to surface when I actually sit still long enough to listen.
The Bible stays on the coffee table.
The show keeps playing.
And somewhere deep down, beneath all the noise and distraction, I feel it—conviction.
The kind that’s easy to ignore if you try hard enough.
So I do.
I ignore it.