Chapter 17
Jack
My rule was just texting, but fucking Morgan wouldn’t be that terrible.
A one and done.
Noel and her dad would never find out.
We would have a great time we’d always remember. Nobody hurt.
And damn, do I want church girl’s pussy.
If I prayed, it would be now. Before bed, begging God to let this happen. Except he isn’t real and Morgan is unpredictable. All I have is hope, and that rarely gets me what I want. Hence, I try to calm the thrill that rushes through me when my new phone rattles on the nightstand.
dumb girl: Hey, had a great time last night
I smirk. Good. No sign of regret after I finger-fucked her in public.
And kissed her. Too many times. I shouldn’t do that. For her sake.
Me: me 2
Fuck, what else should I say... Things changed. I don’t want to slide into the friends-zone again and never see so much as a nude pic.
I got it.
Me: I miss ur taste
That’s perfect. Yes. Send.
dumb girl: (blushing emojis)
dumb girl: I miss kissing u
She’s sweet. I’d rather her say she liked the feel of my cock and wants it inside her, but if I’m being real, I miss kissing her too.
Don’t think like that, Jack.
Me: have a good day.
I consider texting ‘Did u decide if u wanna fuck?’ but I resist. Morgan having faith in men — especially men like me — is something I don’t want to be the one to destroy.
I play it safe.
Me: text me tonight
Send.
A few weeks pass. She claims she talked to her dad about Noel, and I believe her. I won’t know for sure until his court date.
Otherwise, our texts stay hot enough to keep hope alive, but sweet enough to fuel doubt. I’m glad she’s texting me, regardless. It makes the mundane less agonizing. It’s the small piece of something good I needed.
However, each day, her texts become a little shorter. It’s pissing me off, so I call her one night.
“Hey, Jack,” she whispers, her tone bristling with excitement.
A good sign.
“Just wanted to hear your voice,” I say.
Which is disturbingly true.
“Aww,” she coos, then pauses. “Um, I am having a hard time with this.”
My stomach drops, and I stand up from my bed fast.
“A hard time?”
“It’s tough because... I miss you. I don’t know if I can see you again. I think it will... I don’t know.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Along with any hope.
Worse, my heart rages in my chest because she still fucking misses me. I miss her too.
“We don’t have to hang out, Morgan. We can just text.”
A beat.
“Morgan?”
“Texting is hard for me, too.”
“Why?” I snap, probably too harshly. This conversation is going in the wrong direction.
“Because texting isn’t enough for me.”
I suppress a groan. “I’m confused. You don’t want to see me again, but texting isn’t enough?”
Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I want you as... my boyfriend.”
I suck in a sharp breath. She isn’t supposed to say shit like that. Neither of us can go there. It’s impossible.
There’s one thing I know about my beliefs: they aren’t changing.
And Morgan being the prodigal preacher’s daughter means she won’t change, either.
I don’t know how to respond to her Earth-shaking confession, so I do the rational thing.
“Tell me what you like. I like street racing, but what about you?”
She hesitates, then says, “I like church.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Tell me about it.”
“It’s religious, though.”
“I know, baby. Keep talking to me.”
I pace in my room, because I want to hear her.
I don’t want her to hang up. She doesn’t want to have sex, fine.
She wants what we can’t give each other because of faith and family.
Also fine. Just her voice. A distraction.
I need it at this moment before she takes the one thing that’s been getting me by.
And she does talk. For hours I listen. We tell stories, share our favorite foods, places, things that make us smile.
She laughs that beautiful way she does. “And Tommy walked out with paint as hair gel?”
“Uh huh. The whole crew always keeps me on my toes.”
“That must be tiring.”
“It is,” I say. “But it’s worth it most days. Just wish it was easier and I could hire more people.”
“I can give you money. It’ll help,” she says carefully, as if she is walking through a minefield. “I’m not trying to emasculate you, but I want to help you, Jack.”
It guts because I do need help. I should accept it for the crew, but it feels fucking wrong now. Like I slithered into a holy place and stole a golden chalice.
I ignore her offer, and in haste, a secret spills from my lips.
“I dated Claire a year ago. I brought her to the center. She visited now and then, but always got overwhelmed. It’s why we ended things.”
“Oh? I’m sorry.”
There’s a sadness in her voice. I am unsure why, but the other half of that secret bursts free from a dark place I rarely go.
“Sometimes, when I slow down, I worry I won’t meet a woman who can handle my life. Even with just Tommy, what girl would want a guy with a special needs brother who’ll never move out?”
“Oh, Jack,” she soothes, her voice cracking with pity I didn’t need. I just wanted to tell someone. Anyone.
She says what I expected: “That isn’t true.”
Resigned and tired, I give her what she wants in return.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
A lie.
There’s a painfully long pause. It’s too unbearably quiet, like she’s Claire and drowning in the waters of my ugly truth.
I break and pivot fast.
“What’s your fear? The one you don’t tell people?”
She replies quick, eager to flee from the secret I just dropped.
“I’m scared if I do everything right, I still won’t be happy.”
I hoped she’d say she doubted God was real. Instead, she said something sweet. I admire her for it.
“You’ll be happy, Morgan.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I chuckle, genuine and warm. “Because if you can’t be happy, there’s no hope for me. I guess that’s why I like you. You spread hope to everyone you meet.”
Even me.
Her voice lifts. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”
We talk and talk, and by two in the morning, both of us are lying in our separate beds, phone to our ears, and falling asleep.
I wake up with our connection severed by distance, time, and a battery that wore out.
She texts me later, short and final.
dumb girl: If u ever need help with ur center, lmk. I’ll always help if u need it. Take care, jack
It guts more than I anticipated. We were getting attached. Feeling things. Things we shouldn’t. It’s for the best we never slept together.
I grind my molars and snarl, hating that I have something else to mourn.
A month passes and I slide into my old rut, except now, instead of texts, I stalk her social media posts like I’m chasing a ghost.
One evening, I squint at a new video.
She stands with a blonde guy on a massive stage. Twenties. He wears a suit, a gold watch, and polished dress shoes. His jaw is muscled, and he has dimples that surely make women want him.
She holds a mic and speaks with her bubbly, Southern voice.
“Church of Redemption is so humbled to welcome Blake Briggs from New York’s premiere Church of St. George. He will serve as pastor at our evening services.”
“Thank you, Morgan. I am so blessed to join your growing fellowship,” he says and looks at the cameras with a beaming smile. His voice carries through the massive speakers to the sprawling crowd. They clap wildly. He owns the stage the same way Morgan does. “God is good!”
People cheer louder and the choir breaks into song.
He grabs Morgan’s hand and lifts it high in a gesture of unity.
It lasts a single second, but I catch it. Back up. Replay. Back up. Replay.
She side-eyes him and smiles. A coy, bashful smile. A smile she once gave me.
She likes him.
My heart fucking stops.
I put the pillow over my face.
I’m the past. He’s her future.