Say a Little Prayer(55)
“I had to do something, Greer. You looked like you were about to throw yourself across an open flame.”
“I was fine.”
“Your marshmallow is on fire.”
Greer looks down in time to watch her perfect golden marshmallow burst into flames on the end of her skewer. She shrieks, frantically trying to blow it out, but by the time it subsides, the only thing left is a charred husk.
Amanda gives her a sympathetic pat on the back. “And that,” she says, “is why we don’t listen to boys with guitars.”
The others fall into easy conversation around me, laughing as the remnants of Greer’s marshmallow drip into the pit with a soft hiss. I remain at the edge of the circle. I haven’t talked to Julia since lunch. I assumed she’d gone ahead to help set up the bonfire, but I don’t see her on any of the blankets. I spot Ben a few yards away, momentarily drawn by the copper glint of his hair, but he’s surrounded by a group of boys from his cabin, his sister nowhere to be found. She isn’t digging through the pile of skewers either. She’s not constructing s’mores or playing cornhole on the other side of the firepit or sitting with the cluster of girls at Patrick’s feet.
It’s not until I glance over my shoulder that I finally spot her sitting alone on an overturned log at the edge of the clearing. She’s wearing one of my old drama club T-shirts, the stretched-out collar hanging loose from one shoulder as she bends over the prayer book in her lap. The fire casts a warm orange glow across the side of her face, etching her unbound hair in layers of gold, and the sight of it makes my heart go miserably, traitorously soft.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to no one in particular.
I duck away from the fire without waiting for a response. Julia looks up as I approach, and just like last time, she closes her prayer book a little too quickly at the sight of me. Just like last time, I pretend not to notice.
“Here.” I hold my skewer in her direction. “For you.”
Julia eyes the burned hunk of marshmallow clinging to the end. “Thanks,” she says dryly. Then she glances over my shoulder. “Were you just talking to Amanda? Like, on purpose?”
I snort. “Something like that.”
Julia’s log isn’t really meant for two people, but she scoots over the best she can to make room. I drape one leg over each side, straddling it so I can face her directly, then follow her gaze across the clearing. The others are still deep in conversation, laughing at some joke we can’t hear. Greer has her head thrown back, physically holding Amanda’s shoulder to remain upright, and my chest squeezes at the sight. How many times had I watched them laugh with Hannah like that, arm in arm on the couch or piled together in the back of a car?
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” I say, gaze dropping back to the log beneath me. “We ran into each other this afternoon when I went back for my hat.”
Julia’s eyebrows fly up. “Really?”
“Yeah. She…apologized.”
“For what she said about Hannah?”
“For everything, I think.”
“Oh.” Julia leans back, weight braced on one hand. “And you believe her?”
“I want to. I think Hannah deserves to hear it.” I trail a finger over the rough bark between us, tracing invisible lines as I try to untangle the knot inside me. “It’s weird, though. For so long, I couldn’t do anything about Pleasant Hills or…how it works, but I could blame her. I’m not sure what to do with that now.”
Too much, I think as the words hang suspended between us. Too real. I bite the inside of my cheek as Julia stiffens beside me. This might be the closest I’ve ever come to talking about Pastor Young’s role in all this, and still, I feel like I’m tiptoeing around the truth. Like the topic is breakable and I’m one wrong word away from shattering with it.
Years ago, I accepted that I would never completely understand how Julia’s brain works. She’s always been several steps ahead of me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still read her like a book. Now, for instance, I watch her brow crease with something between frustration and torment. When she speaks again, every word is deliberate.
“I love bonfire night. I always have. It feels like the first time all week everyone’s happy.”
I laugh. “Yeah, because no one’s making us do weird survivalist activities.”
“Sure,” Julia says. “There’s that, but it’s also the first time I feel like these trips have a purpose.”
“And what’s that?”
A wry smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “Being together. Finding each other. I know camp isn’t perfect, but I’ve always loved having a place to come back to, and I love when it feels like this. This should be the point of everything, you know? I don’t think people like Amanda know that yet.”
My nails dig into a patch of crumbling moss. “That’s not an excuse.”
“I know.” Julia’s expression turns distant. “But I don’t think it’s like this everywhere. I think there must be places where people genuinely care about each other. Delaney’s family belongs to this church over in Franklin where people actually laugh during the sermon. Did you know that? They’re supposed to. I went with them once a few years ago, and their pastor talked for twenty minutes about how Jesus would have been a socialist if he was alive today. Which is, like, objectively true, but the only thing I could think about was how much trouble I’d be in if anyone ever found out I was there, and sometimes I wonder what would happen if we had someone other than—”