Chapter 24
Harper
I can’t sleep.
I’ve been staring at my ceiling for the past two hours, replaying the day on an endless loop.
Church. Dr. Bailey. The lunch. The parking lot.
The almost-kiss.
Ugh, the almost-kiss.
I roll over, pressing my face into my pillow, and groan.
What am I doing?
This was supposed to be simple. Fake date Micah to the gala. Make Collin jealous. Win him back.
Except Collin’s with Jessica now, the girl who fits perfectly into his life in a way I never did.
And I’m lying in bed at 10:47 p.m. on a Sunday night, unable to stop thinking about the way Micah’s hand felt against my cheek. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. The way we both leaned in, closer and closer, until that stupid car alarm.
I sit up, running my hands through my hair.
This isn’t about Collin anymore.
And that’s a problem.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram. Ivy posted a selfie with Gray from church this morning—both of them smiling, his arm around her, looking annoyingly happy.
I keep scrolling.
Anna posted a picture of her and Tim at brunch.
Dr. Bailey shared a photo of the church building with the caption: Found our new Sunday home!
Everyone looks so settled. So sure of themselves.
And here I am, 27 years old, single, confused about everything, and exhausted from trying to hold it all together.
I toss my phone aside and swing my legs out of bed.
I walk to my desk and see the photo booth pictures from the gala, still sitting where I left them.
I pick up the strip, studying each frame.
The silly faces. The laughter. The third one where we’re trying to look serious but failing.
And the fourth one.
The one where we’re looking at each other.
Not at the camera. At each other.
Like nothing else existed.
I set the photo strip down and notice the journal lying next to them.
The brown leather journal Micah gave me before the gala.
I pick it up, running my fingers over the cover, then open it to the first page.
His handwriting stares back at me.
Harper,
May this be a space where you can be honest with God, yourself, and the journey ahead.
Proverbs 3:5-6
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.”
- Micah
I flip through the pages, finding my sermon notes from this morning.
Pastor Jack had asked us to make a list of everything we needed to accomplish this week.
I started to write it down. Underlined it. Then stared at it for the rest of the sermon because I already knew my answer.
He’d talked about Psalm 42. The deer that’s parched and longing, desperate for water—not wandering toward it, not thinking about it, but aching for it.
And how the psalmist, exhausted and under pressure, doesn’t cry out for relief, or answers, or rescue.
His deepest cry is just for presence. For God Himself.
I’d written that down too. His innermost desire is for God.
But now, staring at the notes, I realize I don’t actually know what that feels like.
Desire.
Longing.
Not because you’re supposed to. Not because it’s on the list.
I know the words. I’ve heard them my whole life.
But how do you actually want that?
Because I’ve been trying. God knows I’ve been trying.
I’m a nice person. I don’t judge others, at least not to their faces.
I volunteer in children’s ministry nearly every weekend—not because I feel called to it, but because I’m good at it and it’s easier than sitting in a pew and actually listening.
I know the Bible inside and out—or at least I used to, from the Scripture overload of my childhood.
I can still recite verses on command like a party trick.
I add Scripture to all my social media posts. Encouraging ones. The kind that gets saved and shared. I pick them the same way I pick a good caption—for the aesthetic, if I’m being honest.
I’ve never missed an Easter or Christmas service in my life. Not once. Not because I couldn’t wait to get there, but because not going would feel wrong in a way I can’t fully explain. Like breaking a rule nobody wrote down.
I tithe. I bow my head when someone prays out loud. I know exactly what to say so that I sound like I mean it.
All the things my parents taught me good Christians do.
But that’s the thing Pastor Jack said that I can’t shake loose. God isn’t waiting at the bottom of your productivity list. Spending time with Him isn’t the reward you get after you’ve performed well enough. It’s the thing you’re supposed to actually want.
And I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted it. Not really. Not the way the psalmist wanted it. Not like someone parched and desperate and willing to say so out loud.
I’ve wanted to be good. I’ve wanted to look good. I’ve wanted to feel like the kind of person who has it together spiritually.
I close the journal and press it against my chest, sinking onto the edge of my bed.
What’s wrong with me?
Micah makes it look so easy. His faith seems so, effortless. Natural. Like breathing.
He doesn’t struggle like I do. He doesn’t second-guess everything. He just...believes.
And I don’t know how to do that.
I glance at my phone. 10:52 p.m.
It’s late. Too late to call anyone.
But I could text.
My thumb hovers over Micah’s contact.
I shouldn’t.
I really, really shouldn’t.
But I’m spiraling, and he’s the only person who might understand.
I type quickly before I can talk myself out of it.
Harper
If you’re awake, can you talk?
I hit send and immediately regret it.
It’s almost 11 p.m. He’s probably asleep. Or getting ready for bed. And now I’ve bothered him with my existential crisis about faith and—my phone rings.
Micah’s name flashes on the screen.
My heart jumps into my throat.
He called. He didn’t text back. He just... called.
Instantly.
I answer, pressing the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Harper?” His voice is alert, concerned. Not groggy at all. “Are you okay?”
“I—yeah. I’m okay. I’m sorry, I know it’s late—”
“It’s not too late. I was up.”
“Really?”
“I don’t sleep much,” he says, and there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. “Four, maybe five hours a night. I’ve been that way since college.”
“That can’t be healthy.”
“Probably not. But it gives me more time to get things done.” He pauses. “What’s going on?”
I stand up, pacing my bedroom. “I just... I had a question. About something Pastor Jack said this morning.”
There’s a pause.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s the question?”
I look down at the journal in my other hand, at the notes I took, and suddenly I don’t know where to start.
“He talked about grace,” I begin. “About how we can’t earn God’s love. That it’s a gift. But I don’t... I don’t understand how to actually live that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—” I pace faster. “I’ve been trying, Micah. I really have. I volunteer. I try to read my Bible. I pray before meals. I do all the things I’m supposed to do. But I still feel like I’m not good enough. Like I’m missing something.”
“Harper—”
“And it’s easy for you,” I continue, the words tumbling out faster now. “You’re perfect. You’ve got your faith all figured out. You don’t struggle like I do.”
“Harper, I’m not—”
“You are!” My voice cracks. “You lead Bible studies. You run children’s ministry. You probably haven’t sinned since you were twelve.”
He laughs.
And I don’t know whether to be offended or relieved.
“Harper,” he says, and there’s warmth in his voice. “I sinned this morning when I got annoyed at the guy who cut me off in traffic. And yesterday, when I judged someone for their Instagram post. And last week when I snapped at Marcus for eating my leftovers from the church fridge.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Okay, fine. But you’re still... good. You don’t mess up like I do. You’re always doing the right thing.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is—”
“Harper.” His voice is firmer now. “I’m the furthest thing from perfect. And if you think I’ve got my faith all figured out, you’re wrong.”
I stop pacing, sinking back onto the bed.
“Then why does it seem so easy for you?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You want to know the difference between us?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not that I’m better. It’s that I stopped trying to manufacture fruit on my own.”
I grab the journal and flip to a blank page, reaching for a pen. “What does that even mean?”
“There’s this passage in John 15,” he says. “Jesus says, ‘Remain in Me, and I in you. Just as a branch is unable to produce fruit by itself unless it remains on the vine, so neither can you unless you remain in Me.’”
I scribble down the reference.
John 15:4
My handwriting messy and rushed.
“Okay,” I say. “John 15. Got it. But I still don’t understand what that has to do with me.”
“Everything,” Micah says. “Harper, you’re exhausted because you’re trying to be the vine and the branch. But you’re not the vine. Jesus is.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Just... sit around and hope good things happen?”
“No. You stay connected. You remain in Him.”
I press my palm to my forehead, frustration building. “Micah, I don’t know what that means. I don’t know how to do that.”
“Okay, let me explain it better.” He takes a breath. “Picture a grapevine.”
“Got it.”
“The vine is the main part—the trunk. It’s strong, rooted, the source of life. And then there are branches growing out of it.”
“Okay.”
“The branches don’t produce the grapes. The vine does. The branches just have to stay connected to the vine. And when they do, the life of the vine flows through them, and fruit grows naturally.”
I’m writing now, trying to capture everything he’s saying.
“So... Jesus is the vine,” I say slowly.
“Right.”
“And we’re the branches.”
“Exactly.”
“And the fruit is... what? Love? Joy? All that stuff?”
“Yeah. The fruit of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. All the things you’ve been trying so hard to produce on your own.”
I set down my pen, pressing my hand to my chest. “So you’re saying I’ve been doing it wrong.”
“No.” His voice is so gentle it makes my throat tight. “I’m saying you’ve been trying to do it alone. And that’s exhausting.”
“It is,” I whisper. “It’s so exhausting, Micah.”
“I know.”
“I feel like I’m constantly falling short. Like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough.”
“That’s because you’re striving instead of remaining.”
I pull my knees to my chest, the phone still pressed to my ear. “What’s the difference?”
“Striving is about effort. It’s about working harder, doing more, trying to prove yourself. Remaining is about connection. It’s about staying close to Jesus and letting His life flow through you.”
“But how do I do that?” My voice cracks. “I don’t know how to stay connected. I don’t even know what that looks like.”
There’s a pause, and I hear him shift—like he’s settling in for a longer conversation.
“It’s not as complicated as you think,” he says. “Remaining means talking to Him like He’s real—because He is. Reading His Word not to check a box, but to hear His voice. Spending time in His presence because you want to, not because you have to.”
“But I’ve tried that. I read my Bible app daily. I pray. And I still feel... empty.”
“Because you’re doing it to earn something,” he says gently. “You’re reading your Bible to prove you’re a good Christian. You’re praying to check off a spiritual to-do list. But Harper, God doesn’t want your performance. He wants your presence.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
My hand fumbles with my phone, and suddenly the screen lights up.
Switching to FaceTime...
Oh no.
“Wait, I didn’t mean to—”
And then Micah’s face fills the screen.