The Voice We Find

Chapter 22

22

Sophie

A fter the first November ASL class ends, I follow Portia through the auditorium for some private talk time at her request. It isn’t unusual for her to inquire about Gabby’s well-being from time to time. Her maternal heart stretches further than a mother analyzing her son’s girlfriend. She often remarks on how grateful she is that Gabby has another consistent adult in her life outside of her older brother, who, unfortunately, has chosen to make himself scarce in communities like this one.

The same way he does with church on Sunday mornings, despite my numerous invitations for him to join us. In response, he always has a ready excuse: helping Chip move apartment complexes in San Francisco, raking Norma’s yard, winterizing the greenhouse, catching up with an old LA client for brunch on their way through town, and, of course, work at the studio.

Last weekend, I finally asked if there was a specific reason why he didn’t want to attend service with us. But once again, August evaded giving me a clear answer, claiming he was “happy you and m y sister enjoy going.” And though he didn’t say as much, I got the distinct impression he was hoping his response would put the matter to rest. As if my current Sunday morning routine of sitting next to Gabby and Tyler in the ASL section and taking notes on the sermon should be enough to satisfy me indefinitely. Only, I know it won’t be. While I have zero room to complain regarding how often we see each other during the week, I feel his absence acutely every time I walk into Seaside Fellowship without him.

I make my way to Portia, who’s carrying a music stand backstage. Though my situational awareness grows as I climb the steps to meet her, my anxiety neutralizes as soon as she flips the switch to illuminate props, sets, and lighting rigs. It’s strange to think how this backstage world was once more familiar to me than the tiny apartment I shared in New York with Dana. I run my fingers over the texture of a felt hat with a feather sticking out of the brim. I pick it up and barely stop myself from trying it on. Maybe Dana’s right. Maybe I miss this more than I’ve allowed myself to realize.

“It was a great class tonight,” I tell Portia. “I took so many notes in the margin of my book that I don’t know how I’m going to read my microscopic handwriting. But the grammar rules of ASL are so fascinating.”

Portia smiles and leans against the backdrop of a massive sunflower with a country road winding up a crown of mountains in the distance. “I wish all my students were as enthusiastic about learning a new language as you. You must have been a superstar student in school.”

I laugh. “I certainly was not a superstar student.” That title only ever belonged to Jasper. I set the hat down and move to grip the king’s scepter, the one with the large amber gem attached to the end. “Whenever learning felt like school, I hated it. But when I finally had the chance to learn about the things I was truly fascinated by—something in my head worked differently. It’s the reason I was able to major in theater arts.”

“Because theater made your soul sing like nothing else,” she coos in such a gentle, knowing way that I turn to face her.

“Yes.” I swallow back unexpected emotion. “I suppose that’s exactly how I felt.”

“And how do you feel about it now?”

I study the scepter in my hand, recalling the email I received today courtesy of Dana’s meddling. Not only did she find an old audition video of mine on her phone from a time when I asked her for feedback, but she actually submitted it to the traveling theater company we’d dreamed of touring with one day ... without my knowledge or consent. But according to their reply email, they absolutely loved it. They sent me an invite to schedule a live, online callback. Dana received one, too.

“Promise me you’ll at least schedule the callback, Sophie. Do it for us. For all the years we dreamed of taking a show on the road together and seeing the country. This could be our chance,” she begged as soon as I called her asking why I was getting feedback on an audition I hadn’t even submitted.

After much back and forth, I promised her I would at least try. It was the least I could do after all she’s been willing to do for me.

“I can’t say for sure,” I respond to Portia, “but I can say there’s been a lot of wonderful changes in my life since the last time I performed on a live stage.” For what might be the first time since my move to California, I don’t cringe at the thought of that horrible opening night or the failure I was so ashamed to face. I was so certain this season of my life would be the worst in my existence, and yet it’s far from it. God provided me with a job I love, gave me a welcoming church home, expanded my community, and brought me friends who feel closer than family.

And then, there’s August. My heart kick-starts even now at the thought of him.

Portia’s curious gaze twinkles. “I’ve been praying God would bring you some much needed restoration in this area of your life.”

“You mean, in theater ?”

She nods.

I open my mouth to thank her, but before I can, she holds up a finger. She might be a full head shorter than me, but Portia is no pushover. “Don’t thank me quite yet. I do have selfish motives at work.” I laugh at her honesty. “When we won the bid on this historical theater, Nick and I had to address the immediate needs first: plumbing issues in the ladies’ restroom, the leaky roof, safety code violations, etc. We were able to put on a couple dinner shows, which helped bring in enough revenue to take care of those pressing needs and gain some exposure in our local community.” She shifts her stance and brings her hands up to her chest. “But my dream, long before there was ever a theater available to bid on, was to someday direct a live, onstage production with both deaf and hearing actors. Nick and I feel called to bridge the gap wherever God leads and to do our part to further the representation of our beloved friends in the deaf community. Creating a deaf-friendly theater isn’t a small undertaking, but we feel it’s time we take the next steps forward. And we’d like you to pray about being involved with us. Perhaps as our musical director.”

My jaw hinges open. But once again, she holds up her hand to stop me from speaking.

“I’ve Googled you, Sophie. I’ve watched your published auditions, and I’ve seen you act and sing on stage. I wasn’t wrong about you. You’d be an incredible asset to any production team no matter what role you took on. God’s given you a tremendous voice, and I think His plans reach beyond the limits of acting on a stage.”

I blink back tears. “I ... wow. Thank you. I don’t even know what to say to all that.”

“You don’t need to say anything. Deaf theaters are rare and often difficult and expensive to facilitate, which is one of the reasons there are only a handful of them in the nation. But their existence is what gives us hope and inspiration to try.”

I sit on a rolling staircase, a bit shell-shocked that this is coming on the very same day as Dana’s email plea for me to please use this link to schedule your live callback audition for the sake of a “dream opportunity” she’s told me very little about.

“Will you tell me how they work?” I ask Portia.

The sparkle in her eyes intensifies. “We’d select a show that can f airly represent deaf actors—who will play deaf characters on stage using American Sign Language—and hearing actors who will use spoken or sung English during the performance. The goal is to create a cohesive, innovative experience that would once again bridge the deaf and hearing communities. Theater, much like books and music and art, has always been about connecting audiences through the magic of storytelling. And we want the voice of this theater to be inclusive enough so that the stories shared here can be understood by everyone.”

“That’s a beautiful vision.”

“It is beautiful, yes—” she sighs warily—“but I’d like you to spend some time in prayer before you give me an answer. I’ll be honest with you; this dream of ours won’t be able to pay you what your expertise deserves, not at first. And while it’s fun to dream and discuss show possibilities, there will be a lot of research and planning that will have to come first.” She gestures around to the backstage. “For starters, we’ll need to make this area accessible for a deaf actor. The lighting isn’t conducive to communicate with ASL so we may need to research specialty headlamps so signing hands have the visibility they need to be seen. And then there’s safety concerns that will need to be addressed, as well as finding the right LED screen for the supertitles that will be projected above the stage to interpret for both the hearing and deaf audience members. And then,” she says, taking a huge breath, “we’ll need to find and secure an ASL theater interpreter willing to take on a show.”

I nod, thinking back on a few weeks ago when Portia had mentioned different types of interpreter needs in ASL. I’d been shocked to learn that a live theater interpreter requires no less than seven years of training and experience. Apparently, it’s an extremely rare talent to find. From the short video clips she’s shown us in class, it’s also a physically and mentally taxing profession. Even still, I could imagine how rewarding such an investment would be to the Pimentels’ overall vision.

“I’m guessing you’ll need to raise quite a bit of funds for all that,” I venture.

“We w ill,” she agrees. “We’ve just started brainstorming.”

“What are your top ideas so far?”

“Perhaps another dinner show or something similar to what we did this summer with the one-act plays. Whatever we do, it’s important we make it as accessible as we can to both the hearing and the deaf in our community. I’d love to run a private audition for a handful of one-act entrants willing to work with partners—an actor and an ASL proficient interpreter. I was thinking I could advertise it to all my students and drama teams so we could get a good variety of comedy, singing, dialogue, and skits.”

“That’s brilliant, Portia.” And just like that, my mind begins to whirl. “What about a winter showcase?” My eye catches on the fake Christmas tree in the corner. “We could plan it for December. That way we could have an inspirational theme behind it all since people tend to be a bit more generous and open to community gatherings around the holidays. Maybe we could even find a way to announce the fundraiser at church?”

“See?” She smiles. “You’re already an asset to this theater.” A worry line creases her brow. “But do you really think we could pull it off that soon? We’d only have six, seven weeks max and you already work two jobs and have a boyfriend who I hear is rather fond of you—”

“I can make it work.” There is no possible way I’d miss it. Portia has fast become an incredible blessing in my life, and more than that, she and her family are a blessing to so many in this community—especially to a teenage girl I’ve grown to love like a sister.

With a promise to pray about everything else she mentioned, I hug her good-bye and begin my chilly trek to where I parked August’s car. Only when I get there, I’m not alone.

“Hi,” Gabby says with a wave. “Would you mind taking me home? I know it’s out of your way, but I was hoping we could talk.”

I don’t even have to consider my answer. “Absolutely. Did you let Portia know you didn’t need a ride tonight?”

When she assures me she did, I unlock the car and engage the seat warmers. Temperatures are only in the low-fifties, but after such a long summer of sunshine and warmth, I’m definitely feeling the change in seasons.

As I pull onto the main street, I mentally prepare for a Tyler-dominated conversation, when she hits me with “Did Portia tell you about her dream for a deaf theater?”

I hesitate, not knowing how to respond at first. Portia didn’t specify confidentiality during our backstage conversation, but—

“It’s not a secret,” Gabby confirms quickly. “I helped her brainstorm some fundraiser ideas a few nights ago, and she mentioned she was going to talk to you.” I see her bite her lip nervously out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve been hoping she’ll choose to do another one-act showcase.”

I breathe a little easier and nod. Perhaps the reason Portia took me backstage was more about her asking me to consider a future at the theater. “It sounds like you’ll get your wish. We’re going to shoot for a winter showcase in December.”

“Really?” Gabby clasps her hands under her chin, and I can tell by her quick response time while in the shadows in her brother’s car that her aids must still be in from class. “I know there are some incredibly talented actors in the community, but ... but I want to audition.”

“Then you should,” I say automatically. I saw the girl on a live stage, and she was absolutely wonderful. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to do a dramatic retelling of something I experienced—using ASL.” She pauses again, causing me to spare another glance in her direction. “And I’d like you to be my voice.”

“You’d like me to ... be your voice ?” I nearly swerve out of my lane.

I can see her nod out of the corner of my eye, and I feel the same type of pressure building in my chest as I did that first morning in church listening to the parable of the lost sheep.

“I want you to be my hearing partner, to voice my story in English, while I tell it in ASL.”

I wait till after I turn onto her street so I can swallow down the lump in my throat before I answer. “I’d be honored.”

“Thank you,” she says, right before I see her knee begin to bounce. “Also , I have these ... um ... voice recordings things. They’re kind of like a spoken journal, I guess. In the beginning, the doctors weren’t sure how much the swelling in my brain would affect me long-term or what I’d be able to remember. They weren’t sure if my hearing would return or not at that point. And since my right arm was broken, one of the nurses suggested I use this voice memo app and start recording what I could remember about the accident—or anything for that matter—just in case I needed it.” She fidgets in her seat. “The memos transcribe what I say, so it’s kind of like writing, but much faster and with better grammar. Plus, it kept my voice active when I couldn’t do much else.”

Compassion and sadness grip me so hard at her pronouncement. Picturing vibrant, gregarious, wise-beyond-her-years Gabby suffering in a hospital bed after the loss of her parents makes it difficult to take a full breath.

“Sounds like cool technology. What did you talk about in the memos?”

“Random stuff at first, things that happened once I was back home when August came to live with me. I figured I’d stop recording at some point and switch to a real journal, but I never have. It’s sort of a habit now, something I look forward to doing when I have a minute alone and just want to decompress.” She clears her throat. “I was hoping to send a few of them to you—the memos, I mean. Most of them are under five minutes, so they shouldn’t take a lot of time to listen to, but there’s one I recorded that’s pretty important to me. I describe what happened after the accident. I’d like to see if I can make it into a monologue script for stage. If you think I can, I was hoping you might help me write it in a way that could work well for ASL and for English.”

I’m pulling into the Tates’ driveway now and doing my best to keep my many conflicting emotions at bay as I shift the car into Park. I reach for her hand across the center console. “Of course, Gabby. I’ll help with anything you need.”

There are tears in her voice as she holds on to me. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

She n ods. “I’ll send a few of them over to you tonight, then.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Suddenly, her grip tightens as we see her brother open the front door and head for the driveway toward us. “But you can’t tell August.”

I’m so stunned by her panicked plea that my face has no time to apply a play-it-cool expression.

“But why?”

“Please, Sophie,” she repeats as August approaches the driver’s side. “Don’t tell him about the voice memos or the showcase. I need to do this on my own, in my own way and time.” She stares at me straight on. “Promise?”

“Okay, yes,” I assure her. “I promise.”

After a brief squeeze, she pops open her door and races down the driveway toward the house, not bothering with more than a quick hello to August.

Despite the chilly air outside, I roll down my window to greet him, but he’s too busy tracking his sister’s sprint inside.

“What was all that about?” he asks.

I have no answer to offer because I, too, am clueless.

His brow dips into a V. “I thought Portia was taking her home tonight.”

“Uh, she was, but Gabby asked if I could give her a ride instead.”

“Why?”

I pinch my lips closed in what is likely the most suspicious improv gesture on the planet.

“Ah,” he says with a level of amusement that surprises me. “I get it. Girl talk.” He taps the top of the window frame. “Or probably more specifically, boy talk.”

“Yep.” The P pops on the word. “You guessed it.”

My nod is as exaggerated as they come.

But then his pleasant expression shifts to mortification. “Wait, she wasn’t asking you about ... something physical, right?” He grips the back of his head. “Did she tell you they were—”

And then it clicks. “Oh, no! No, no! Gosh, no. They’ve only just had their first kiss.”

“ What ?!” he all but howls through the darkened neighborhood. “They’ve kissed?”

“ August ,” I chide. “Shhh!”

“When did that happen?” he whisper-shouts.

“Last week, on their group date when they went to that drive-in movie with closed captioning. She video-called me later that night to tell me.”

His eyes double in size. “And you didn’t think that was information I should know? Why am I just now hearing about this?”

“Stand down, big brother. If you keep looking like a deranged meerkat every time something new comes up, she’ll never tell you anything.” I reach out the car window and pat his shadowed cheek. I quite like his nine o’clock shadow. “It was only a little peck on the lips. It was actually super sweet, and kind of an accident.”

He squints his eyes at me. “Sorry, sweetheart, but there are no accidental kisses when it comes to teenage boys. I should know, I used to be one.”

“No really, it was,” I chuckle. “They were sitting in the back of the pickup truck, sharing a pack of gummy worms, and there was this double worm so Gabby suggested—”

“Nope. N-o-p-e.” He shakes his head. “I need this story to end right now.”

I laugh in full. “Fine. But other than that, they’re both being incredibly respectful of the physical boundaries you and the Pimentels have set for them.”

He releases a long exhale.

I pat my open window frame until he shrinks down enough to plant his elbows inside. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

“No,” he huffs. “But I do know why my dad went gray so young.”

“I think you’ll be a super sexy silver fox whenever that day comes.” What I don’t say is that I hope I’m here to see it.

It’s these unprompted thoughts that make me question my prom ise to Dana. Even scheduling a callback seems ludicrous when I can’t imagine leaving him. Not with how my feelings for him have grown.

And yet, lately, I’ve wondered if those feelings are still mutual.

There are moments, much like this one, when August’s gaze seems to spell out the same three words that burn inside my own chest for him. But instead of speaking out the declaration I long to hear most, August will always find a way to break the connection. A deliberate distraction. A change of subject. A physical separation.

Tonight, he does all three.

When he straightens and crosses his arms over his chest, I can’t even pretend not to feel rejection’s sting. “Is your brother still out of town?”

I sigh. “You really want to discuss my brother?”

“No, but can you blame me if I sleep better at night when I know he’s not around?”

Confusing as this man is to me at times, a tiny vibration purrs in my chest at his protective tone. August’s Jasper-radar flipped on the day he came to collect the van, and it hasn’t turned off since. Thankfully, my brother’s been out of town for nearly a week, reducing the usual tension around the winery to nonexistent. Other than the estimate he invoiced me for his van repairs, that is. Natalie says she’ll keep working on him to make an insurance claim, but so far, it hasn’t happened yet.

Due to my brother’s absenece, my father hasn’t come around much, and my mother has popped in for “brunch with her girls” twice. And while our conversations are never more than surface-deep, I can be thankful there’s no contention between us.

“He’s still gone,” I confirm to August.

“Good.” He nods. “It will be a relief when you’re out of there.”

I study his face in the moonlight, wishing he’d say more, wishing he’d tell me where he sees this going. Wishing for a commitment outside the ambiguous terms we agreed to when he’d asked me to “give this thing between us a try.”

Only now I’m way past try. But where is he?

“I’ve been praying something amazing will happen with Mistletoe Matri mony so I can afford to move out and find something a bit closer to...”—you and Gabby—“all my activities in town.”

“That would be nice.” August squeezes my shoulder reassuringly and nods. It’s the closest he’s come to affirming my prayers. “Text me when you’re home, okay?”

“I always do.”

He leans through the open window and presses a kiss to my lips. I cherish every heartbeat we share until he pulls away and says good-bye. I’m so lost in thought after I leave his driveway that I startle when I hear the chime of Gabby’s voice memos downloading to my phone.

By the time I pull into the reserved parking space on the east side of the winery, I’ve listened to half the memos Gabby sent me through the Bluetooth connection in August’s car. No matter the memo, her voice always stirs something inside me. A giggle, a swoon, a tear or two, a desire to reach through the recording and pull her close. She’s just begun to share the details of the day her family loaded into a train car to visit a village they hadn’t originally planned on when I see an all-too-familiar silver Mercedes G-Wagon parked in the main lot in front of the estate.

Why on earth would Clinton be here at this hour?

Did my brother get home from his trip ahead of schedule? Are they having a drink? I suppose it’s possible. It’s not like I know anything about my brother’s social habits.

Still, I can’t ignore the red-flag feeling in my gut that something is off. Just as I think it, I see Clinton stroll out the front door, carrying a small black duffle bag in his hand. Even though I’m mostly sheltered from his view, I slink all the way down in my seat, feeling the hammer of my heartbeat against my ribs. I spare a single glance to see if he’s noticed August’s sedan, but if he has, he’s paying it no mind as he climbs into the driver’s seat of his fancy high-roller SUV.

Even after I hear the roar of his obnoxious engine, I stay put, trying to make sense of his presence. Several scenarios play out in my active imagination at once, but before I give myself over to any one assumption, I need to find Natalie.

I speed-walk down the path that runs between the house and the tasting room in search of her when a faint meow pulls my attention to the pool area.

Natalie’s there, in all her grace and elegance, strolling through the gated spa oasis on this cold November night in a plum-colored tracksuit with gold reflective stripes on each pant leg. Phantom is following her like he’s a well-trained puppy and not a socially anxious stray who hates the water. Or so I thought.

In the aqua hue of the pool lights, I watch as he jumps onto the chaise lounge next to where my sister-in-law pushes up her pant legs and carefully sits on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

“Natalie?”

Her back is to me when I enter, but she’s either wearing earbuds or she can’t hear me over the bubbling spa. On closer inspection, she appears to be typing something on her phone.

The outside air is cold, and my sweatshirt is hardly thick enough to ward off the chill, but I slip through the pool gate anyway, marveling at the luxuriousness of it all from the inside. As if he’s suddenly on security duty for the winery, my cat alerts Natalie to my presence.

“Is this where I accuse you of catnapping?” It’s a lame joke, I know.

Natalie stares at me as if she’s unsure of her defense. “I only let him out because he cries every time I pass the pool house door. I can’t bear it.” As if on cue, Phantom drags his fluffy tail along her back. Little manipulator. “I worried he’d try to jump the fence the first time I brought him in with me, but he doesn’t seem to mind being near the water.”

I chuckle at that. “I think it’s you he likes.”

She pets his back. “He’s sweet. I always wanted a cat.”

I stop myself from asking why she doesn’t have one. I know the answer. Speaking of which. “Did, uh, did Jasper get back from his trip early?”

She l ooks at me oddly. “No, why?”

I open my mouth to answer her, only to realize I have no clue what I’m answering. I saw Clinton walk out the front door. The front door . He wasn’t sneaking around or even trying to be discreet. He had to have been invited inside, right? And if Jasper’s still gone, the only possible person who would have been with him inside the house was ... Natalie.

I don’t want to believe the obvious conclusion my brain is creating, but the circumstantial evidence is not looking good. Then again, accusing my sister-in-law of having an affair with my brother’s friend after we’ve only recently found some common ground will likely kill whatever relationship we’ve gained. No, I need to tread carefully. If she trusts me, she’ll confide in me. And if she confides in me, then maybe I can help her. Or at least point her in the right direction.

I glance down at her track pants that are currently rolled up to her knees. Certainly not the kind of wardrobe one might wear while having an illicit affair, right?

“Want to join me? The water’s nice, even if the company is so-so.”

I study her curiously. “Was that a joke?”

She laughs without humor. “If you have to ask, it probably doesn’t qualify.”

She pats the heated tile beside her, and I notice the washed-out tint of her skin and the shadowy half-moons under her eyes. Both have become more pronounced over the last few weeks.

I slip off my shoes and socks and roll up my jeans. And then I lift up a silent prayer for help with this conversation as I take a seat and lower my legs into the Jacuzzi. She’s right; the warm water feels heavenly as I swish my cold feet back and forth.

“There are towels warming in the wicker armoire over there for afterward,” she adds.

“I bet you’ll be thrilled to have your pool house back after I leave.”

She lifts her dainty feet out of the water for all of two seconds before dunking them in again. “Actually, it’s been nice sharing the property with another female.” It takes me a moment to recognize the subtle compliment she’s just paid me. “Although, it feels like you’re hardly around much anymore. You have a fuller social life than I did back in high school.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. You were Miss Popularity in high school,” I say, recalling the prom queen herself. “A trendsetter, too. Did you know that when you left for senior prom in that white glitter dress, I tried to replicate it using my mom’s favorite white linens?”

She whips her head in my direction. “You did not.”

“Unfortunately, I did. I sprayed them with fabric glue, then sprinkled them with all the iridescent craft glitter I could find in our art closet.”

“Did it work?”

“Sure, if you count work to mean something that resembled a wingless fairy wearing a toga that was obviously still a fitted sheet.” I shake my head. “That’s the night I gave up my dreams in fashion design.”

Her laugh is so unexpected, I jump a little, which causes her to laugh all the more. And soon, I’m laughing with her. The more we fight for control, the more we continue to erupt.

“I haven’t laughed like that in...” Her words trail off as she swipes a finger under her eyes. “A really long time.”

“Eighth-grade Sophie would have been thrilled to be your comic relief. Honestly, she would have been thrilled just to sit in the same room as you.” The words come out before I can properly calculate how pathetic they sound.

Her smile dips half a degree, and her tone sobers. “I thought I knew everything when I was eighteen—and whatever I didn’t know, I relied on Jasper to fill in the blanks for me.”

I try to laugh this off, but there’s little humor to be found when it comes to my childhood. “Let me guess, he told you I was a drama queen and that you should stay clear of me?”

She doesn’t need to confirm my suspicion with a verbal reply. Her eyes say it all.

I clear my throat. “Well, I won’t pretend I didn’t have a flair for the dramatic. But I certainly never wanted to be in the spotlight in this home.”

She rubs her lips together. “So where do you go when you’re not here? I mean, outside of your boyfriend’s studio. Unless that’s the only place you go.”

I shake my head at her implication. “On Tuesday nights I go to the Twilight Theater. I’m taking an American Sign Language class with some friends from church.”

Clearly, she wasn’t expecting this. She starts to ask several different questions at once only to land on “Why?”

“The short answer? August’s sister lost her hearing a couple years ago, and I want to support her as best I can. The longer answer is a bit more involved.” One I’m still figuring out, in fact. “But ultimately, I’ve loved being part of such a beautiful community. And since I’m being honest, I’m going to be praying about making a more permanent commitment there in the future.”

She studies me, her expression too mixed for me to read. “It’s real then? The whole church stuff you mentioned at family brunch that day? That wasn’t just to get a rise out of your folks?”

“It’s real,” I say simply.

Natalie blinks, and I swear I see tears in her eyes before she looks up at the full moon. “I don’t think I’d ever be welcome in a church.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve made a lot of poor choices I can’t ever take back.”

Her words double-tap against my heart. “So have I.”

“Not like me,” she retorts. “I’m pretty sure my heart is half rotted from the things I’ve done.”

I lean back onto my palms. “Not even the most perfect person on earth is perfect enough to save themselves. That’s the irony of grace. We all need a savior, and yet none of us can ever earn what He’s already given to us for free.” I keep my focus on the moon, even as I feel hers shift to me. I don’t add more.

I think of the many Tuesday evenings before class when Portia’s only answer to my questions about the Bible were to point me to Scriptures where I could find the truth I sought. At first it frustrated me, especially when some of the verses didn’t seem as black-and-white as I wanted them to be. But Portia’s job wasn’t to su pply me with her opinions. Rather, it was to point me back to the God who promises to meet me exactly where I am and love me unconditionally.

Natalie zips up her sweatshirt. “I haven’t been sleeping well for a while now. There’s been a lot on my mind.”

I lean in, hoping she’ll confide more, but she stays quiet.

“Want to talk about it?”

She looks at me, considering. “Can I take a raincheck on that offer?”

“Of course,” I say. “In the meantime, I’ll be praying for you.”

This time, when her eyes fill with tears, she simply says, “Thank you.”