Chapter 11
Morgan
Isign my name in big, loopy letters on the inside of my new book, Young and Christian. Holding it up, I pose for a picture with the last fan.
The book signing is finished and I’m glad it’s over. This was exhausting. It’s my first one, and I am disappointed by the lack of youth... or women. It’s mostly older gentlemen, which makes me wonder what kind of fan they are.
Anyway, I help Bailey pack up the displays and extra books. I turn around and my eyes blow wide.
“Gabe.”
“Hi, Morgan,” he says calmly.
His face has the faintest bruise under his eye, but otherwise he is unmarked. He sports a fresh haircut, is clean shaven, and wears a clerical collar.
My attacker is still a man of the cloth, apparently.
I blink and stand frozen. I literally cannot move.
“Oh my goodness! Gabe,” gushes Bailey. She gallops over, her red locks bouncing. “You’ve been sick for almost three weeks. I was about to send an ambulance to your house.”
He smiles softly. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’ve missed everyone.”
His eyes flick to mine before he takes a box from my hands.
“May I?” Then he carries it out of the bookstore to the church’s van parked curbside.
I exhale a heavy breath the second he steps out of the door.
“You good, missy? You look sick,” says Bailey.
“Yep. Good.” I reset quick, but Gabe is back, grabbing another box.
My nerves switch on and my hands become clammy. I suppress the emotional onslaught within and make my movements steady the best I can.
We finish packing all the items and I hurry to the van, but he stops me.
“Morgan. Can I buy you a smoothie? Your favorite place is next to the bookstore. Might as well.”
“She would love to!” squeals Bailey, like she is our matchmaker.
I sigh. “I am tired and—”
He lowers his voice.
“I want to apologize. I have a lot to say. After, I’ll leave forever if you want.” He looks over his shoulder at the smoothie shop and points. “It’s in public.”
My stomach knots, but I nod, though hesitantly.
It’s so hard to be around him. His voice is the same with that soft-spoken tenor.
But it all feels different.
However, this needs to be dealt with and if it means he’ll walk out of my life afterwards, great.
It’s chilly inside the white and orange smoothie shop. We order and sit at a small table.
He draws in a long inhale before beginning.
“Welp, first of all, I am sorry. I was wrong. I was out of line. You said no, and I didn’t listen. That’s on me.”
I hold the straw between my lips and squint.
“But why?” I ask.
“I... I am a man of flesh and bone. My desire for you was powerful, and I sinned. I pray for yours and heavenly Father’s forgiveness each day. There is no excuse for what I did.”
He is saying all the right things, but something feels wrong. Maybe the damage is irreversible.
“I want help. I need help,” he continues, leaning closer with his elbows on the table. “I started counseling. I bought some self-help books.”
I hold myself and shrug. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know what to do now, Gabe.”
“I want you to forgive me.”
I feel myself shut down like a phone dying. I stare at the tabletop.
“But not right away,” he adds with a rushed tone. “With time, I want to earn your forgiveness.”
I glance up. That is far more reasonable than simply giving forgiveness.
Yet, my heart pangs as guilt envelops me. It’s hypocritical to withhold forgiveness when I beg Jesus for the same whenever I sin. I suppose I am only flesh and bone, too.
Gabe lowers his voice more so. “I have a confession I’ve never told anyone.” He swallows hard, making his Adam’s apple bob. “I watched pornography and it corrupted my mind with depravity.”
I close my eyes. I never imagined Gabe doing that, either. Honestly, I don’t believe that’s why he did what he did.
“But that’s over, and I am being cleansed daily from the sin it caused.”
“Other men watch that stuff and don’t cross lines,” I mumble.
He sips his drink, seemingly pouting. After a moment, he perks up as if he had an epiphany.
“Morgan, God tests us in ways we don’t expect. This is a test for both of us. For me to vanquish my sinful ways, and for you to trust God gave you the strength to forgive someone as awful as me.”
“I can’t be alone with you,” I blurt, too loud and fast.
“Uh... Of course you can’t. I wouldn’t dream of it.” Then, he shakes his head, like the suggestion is too wild to even fathom.
It isn’t crazy. It’s reality.
“Gabe, be serious. How are we supposed to do youth service together?”
“That won’t be a problem. I will always have someone in the room with us. If we end up alone, I won’t move from where I stand until you exit the room.”
That requires trust, but otherwise, it is an argument that is hard to refute.
My chin trembles lightly, because I don’t want this. This feels too complicated. Nothing about Gabe was ever this complicated.
I am on the verge of tears, but I can’t cry. Not here or in front of him.
Suddenly, he slides me his phone. On the screen is a picture of me and him at Bible camp. We were ten years old. His arm lay over my shoulder and we both beamed at the camera.
“That boy was pure. Somewhere, I fell off the path of righteousness. I ruined what we had romantically. Maybe even our friendship, but please don’t exile me from the one place that heals best: our church. Don’t stop me from preaching as it is my sole purpose. It’s what God chose us to do.”
I groan audibly. This is what makes it so hard. We were the same. It’s why I could relate to him, even though romantic feelings were a simmer instead of a fire.
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper.
“Yes, of course. Take your time.”
I drink my smoothie as he shifts in his chair.
A teenage girl walks in and recognizes us immediately.
“Oh! Morgan. Gabe! I watch your livestream every Saturday.”
We thank her for her viewership.
“Will you be back this week?” she asks Gabe.
He stands and smiles. “Yes, I was ill but feel better.”
Yes. That one word I didn’t give. Another something he took.
I force a smile, but tell myself to strategize later.
“Picture, please?” She has another customer take a photo of the three of us, and I have to stand there and smile like everything is fine.
The familiar acidic taste creeps up my throat and burns my tongue.
I excuse myself and wave at them as I am expected to.
When I get back to the church, I check my social media. The girl posted the picture and tagged us, memorializing a moment I don’t want to remember.
I close my feed.
A text pops up, and I gasp. With my jaw hanging open, I stare.
Jack Killborne: WTF? THAT GUY???