Camp Damascus(41)

The sharp pain in my leg is gone, but a strange ache still rattles through my bones with every step. The closer I get to the coffee shop, the more I consciously balance my stride, forcing myself to push through discomfort. I’ve worn a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the burns and scarring down my arms.

As I slip into the café, my nostrils are swiftly violated by a pungent, bitter scent.

The Darlings rarely drink coffee, and we certainly don’t keep any in the house. While caffeine is one of the rare drugs my parents actually make an exception for, they’ve strictly forbidden me from trying the stuff while I’m under their roof.

“It’s a matter of addiction,” Dad once told me. “The Lord didn’t design our bodies to run on caffeine, and once it becomes a requirement to find joy, well, you’ve got yourself a problem.”

Truth be told, I’d probably never touch the stuff regardless. The one sip I ever took was enough to let me know the flavor isn’t a part of my natural palate.

There are plenty of tables open in various nooks and crannies, and a short line of patrons waits at a front counter. Two baristas are hard at work, jumping between fixing drinks and taking orders with expert proficiency.

My eyes lock on to Ally, but she is completely unaware of my presence as she stands at the back of the line. Her attention is on a large chalkboard that hangs behind the counter, dozens of drink names scribbled in a language that is wholly foreign to me.

I focus, reminding myself exactly why I’m here before making my approach. I mentally refresh my cue card list of questions.

Do you remember Camp Damascus?

Have you seen the demons?

Most important, Do you know who the girl with dark hair is?

Truth be told, this little investigation will go smoother if Ally has no idea who I am, and deep down I’m hoping that is the case. If I can get away with a fake name, I’ll feel much safer if things go sideways. I’d signed my email with nothing more than an R.

“Rose?” Ally blurts, glancing over her shoulder and catching my gaze. She smiles and opens her arms, greeting me with a warm hug.

So much for that plan.

“Hey!” I reply with all the gusto I can manage. “Thanks for meeting up with me!”

“No, thank you! What a blessing this is. Seriously,” Ally cries, her words randomly curling into high pitched squeaks in a way than I can already tell is a long-term habit. “Let me get you something.”

Ally motions to the board of selections.

“It’s fine,” I insist. “I’m okay.”

My coffee date furrows her brow in a playful but scolding way. “He must be hospitable, one who loves what is good, who is self-controlled, upright, holy and disciplined,” she recites.

I need to be easy, I remind myself. Casual. Fun.

“Fine, fine,” I relent, stepping up as the line moves closer. “Do they have chocolate milk?”

Ally pauses, her mind reeling briefly and then finally arriving at an eruption of laughter.

“I forgot how funny you are,” she gushes, touching my arm in a way that seems slightly unnatural for how little I actually know her. It’s not completely out of line, but it serves as a quick reminder that we both have ulterior motives.

I’m calculating too much, I realize, taking a moment to yank my attention back to where it belongs.

A barista suddenly calls out a greeting as the group before us finishes their order, stepping away. Ally approaches the counter, her brilliant smile shining with so much saleswoman pizzazz that it may as well be illuminated. “Venti cappuccino,” she instructs, prompting an odd, tight-lipped smile from the barista. Ally then signals for me to order. “I insist.”

My gaze returns to the board and I immediately struggle to pick from the confusing array.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I stammer, finally choosing a drink at random. “Americano.”

The barista nods. “What size?”

I shoot down the middle. “Medium.”

“Room for milk?”

I recall the last time I mentioned milk and take evasive action. “No thanks.”

Ally pays, then leads us over to an empty table while our drinks are prepared.

“I always knew you were a self-starter,” Ally begins, this observation immediately ringing hollow. She doesn’t know me well enough for that kind of reflection, and it’s another hint that most of this conversation has been well rehearsed. “What is it about the Kingdom’s Young Communicators course that appeals to you?”

Absolutely nothing, but I fully understand I’ll need to give a little if I want some trust in return. Ally’s strong connection to the church makes her a dangerous interview, but it also means her knowledge could run deep.

I’ve gotta take my time with this.

“I’d like to be my own boss,” I reply.

Ally’s grin somehow gets even wider when I say this. “Yes!” she replies with genuine enthusiasm. “Have you read Pastor Bend’s new book?”

I’d love to keep smiling and agreeing with every little thing she says, but out of worry I’ll be quizzed later on, I’m forced to shake my head no. Fortunately, I’ve read everything else by Pete Bend, but the new-release copy from my parents remained unopened on my hospital bed stand.

Ally doesn’t seem to mind that I haven’t been keeping up.