Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
On the lounge sofa, Kit brushes my hair back as I blubber in her lap. I did this for her once when she thought she’d lost Levi. I told her to go get him back.
She can’t tell me that.
Admitting the truth is humiliating. Dizzying. Debilitating. I can’t for the life of me understand why I behaved like I did all weekend.
I’m sorry, Jesus. I’m so sorry.
“Do you think I”—my throat snags—“wrecked it permanently?”
“I don’t know … But you didn’t wreck things with God.”
“Didn’t you?” that sinister voice demands. A troll, taking my thoughts hostage.
I send up a wordless prayer—and cringe, like I shouldn’t.
You are my handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which I prepared in advance for you to do.
My breath shudders.
Handiwork. What a word for me today.
But the troll is silenced.
I run a finger around my bracelet.
“It might be rough for a while,” Kit says. “Maybe for a long time.”
Lifting my aching body, I slump into the rigid corner of this awful couch.
“I figured I’d ruin it eventually.” I knew I’d never deserve him.
No one could, but least of all me. And now I have the proof.
I wipe my face again with the blanket I’m strangling.
“Sometimes it lasts. But usually it just hurts.”
Her eyes widen in alarm. “You basically just spoke Adele lyrics without even trying to sing them.”
I shrug.
She stares out the window. “You need to understand something.”
I inch further away, old defenses threatening. “What?”
“You called me Perfect Little Kit when you were upset about Leo.”
And basically every day in my head. “Yeah?”
“It’s not true.”
“Okay …” What does this have to do with anything?
“I screw up all the time. My screwups are just more hidden. I fight God internally.” She presses a hand to her chest. “But you’re so good at that part. Do you see?”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“When God moves, you respond. You wanted to try church again, and you’ve been to Praise and Prayer almost every week.
I hear you singing those hymns all day, every day.
You pretend you don’t like it, but they’re trying to get you to sing on stage.
” She huffs a laugh. “You thought you should read your Bible more, and now our lounge walls are covered in verses in your pretty cursive. You decided to pray while you run, and now your runs are twice as long.”
I’m a lot. I know this. “I still don’t get what that has to do with”—I can’t seem to say his name—“what happened.”
“And Dr. Shannon!” She points behind her, eyes widening. “Months ago. You delivered a message for me when you were brand new at hearing his voice. Remember? You don’t second-guess and overthink when it comes to what God wants from you. You go and do. And you do big.” She flings her arms wide.
I did big all right. I wad the blanket in my lap.
“I live next to you, so I have a front-row seat. You’re the Elle Woods of faith. The Kat Stratford. No, the Katniss Everdeen.”
I suck in a breath.
“All gas, no brakes. God teaches you something, and you go do it. I admire you so much.”
“Katniss would never have done what I did.”
“What? Katniss was supposed to shoot Snow!” She holds her hands straight beside her face, as if to direct my attention, but then she slumps. “I wish I were more like you. I wish I were brave and big like you. I make myself so small.”
“You’re not small. Except in a height sort of way. You’re Kit Talbot, for crying out loud.”
She half-smiles, pulls her knees in. “You’re doing it again, see?
Listen, I messed up so much last semester trying to be the mastermind of my own life, my own protector.
And still, God made something beautiful out of it.
The mistake you guys made isn’t worse than mine.
It’s real—it hurt Austin, and it hurt you.
You’ll both have to live with it. But it’s not unforgivable.
From where I’m sitting, it seems like you made a really bad choice in a really hard moment.
But I spent months making the same choice over and over again.
” Her hands knot together. “Maybe what happened with you will have a bigger fallout, but you’re not resisting God’s work in your life. ”
“You’ve been through a lot, Kit.”
“So have you. Feeling invisible in your own house? Your parents quitting on each other? You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
I bite my lips and consider that. “I expected a lot more judginess from you.”
“Nope. After the last year, I think life with God is a lot more about surrender and love and trust. If we can just do those for him, he changes us so we can obey in all the other ways.”
Could that actually be true?
She bends forward. “Pray hard about this, okay?”
But I bombed it. What could you want with me now?
I have created you anew.
“He wants me close,” I mumble.
“He wants you close. And …” She winces. “We can talk about this more later, but …”
I eye her, fists clenching in preparation.
“God gave me a project I still haven’t gone and done.”
My fingers relax. “A project?”
“I think he wants me to give dance lessons. In my studio.”
I almost smile. “You’re telling me so I’ll make you follow through?”
“Guilty.”
A couple of days ago, I would’ve jumped at the chance. Something new. Something fun. Something to focus on, to make me feel okay for five minutes. But I don’t trust myself anymore. What if I make an even bigger mess trying to feel free?
What do you say?
She is my handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which I prepared in advance for her to do.
“This is a good thing he planned for you to do, KitKat. Maybe for us to do. I’m in.”
She squeezes my arm in her way. “Thank you.”
“But in exchange, I’m gonna need you to teach me the dances in Work It.”
She drops her head back with a hearty Kit laugh.
“You have seen it, right?” I prop my chin on my wadded blanket. “It has John Ambrose from To All the Boys, except he’s …”
“Jake Taylor,” she says. “Who’s actually Jordan Fisher. Oh, I’ve seen it.”
A smile almost forms but never lands. I wonder if it ever will again.
Her voice lowers. “Did you ask for forgiveness?”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“No, from God.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Then it’s done. Your sins are as far as the east is from the west. Believe it.”
My throat closes with emotion.
At a ding, I scramble for my phone. My heart stops when I see Scott on the text, but it’s not Austin. It’s Janie. Can that be right?
No words, just the link to a playlist. Ten songs. I squeeze my phone, as if it will communicate back with her. She sent me songs.
Maybe she doesn’t know yet. But maybe she does and she’s sending them anyway.