Say a Little Prayer(57)

Maybe Julia has sat through too many of her father’s “this is why God hates gay people” sermons to ever truly consider an alternative. Or maybe the desire had been too clear on my face tonight, too vulnerable, and she decided I wasn’t worth it either.

I slide off the log and reach for my bag, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here. I’ve just started back toward the others when a chill prickles down my spine. I risk a glance over my shoulder, and there, standing on the other side of the firepit with his hands casually tucked in his pockets, is Pastor Young. He’s back in his counselor T-shirt and baggy jeans, identical to the cluster of people around him. In fact, I might not have noticed him at all if he wasn’t watching me through the flames, eyes narrowed on the empty space Julia just left.

I drop my gaze, heart slamming against my rib cage. How long has he been standing there, watching us? It shouldn’t matter. There wasn’t anything to see, but shame still hooks itself under my skin. I hate how familiar it feels. I hate the part of me that still wants to apologize, to throw myself at Pastor Young’s feet and beg for his forgiveness, even though I’ve done nothing wrong.

That’s something they train into you early at Pleasant Hills. It’s something, I’ve found, that’s even harder to clear out.

Delaney looks up when I approach, then tugs me back into the circle like I never left. Torres offers me a perfectly toasted s’more, Greer grimaces each time a new girl joins the circle at Patrick’s feet, and through it all, I smile, trying very hard not to notice Pastor Young still watching me across the open flame.





XV


    Lust and Found


I sleep fitfully that night, wading half asleep through dream after dream where Pastor Young watches me, unblinking, from every corner of the room. When I run into him in the cafeteria the next morning, it takes me a solid thirty seconds to realize it’s not an additional part of the nightmare. It is, unfortunately, real life.

“Morning, Riley,” he says, stepping back so I can stack my empty tray on the counter behind him. “Nice win yesterday.”

It’s another minute before I remember our game of capture the flag. I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes since then, each more draining than the last. “Thanks,” I say. “It was a team effort.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Pastor Young nods toward the door, motioning for me to walk with him. “Do you have a minute? I feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”

Yes, I think. There’s a reason for that.

Out loud, I say, “I don’t have long. We’re meeting in the chapel today, and Gabe will probably kill me if I’m late for today’s lesson on”—I flip open my workbook, hastily fanning through the pages until I find where we left off—“lust and the way it consumes us.”

I snap the book closed. On second thought, maybe I should take my time.

Pastor Young comes to a stop just outside the cafeteria doors, but I waver on the threshold. Every Sunday for as long as I can remember, he stood in front of the Pleasant Hills chapel and greeted every member of the congregation by name. He always remembered the details, too, like when the McHughs’ next baby was due or where the seniors were going to college. He does the same thing here, offering every passing camper a wave and a smile. After a year away, I’d forgotten how intoxicating it is to watch, how chosen and favored and special his attention makes you feel.

“So,” he says, turning the full force of that warmth on me. “How have you been?”

I shrug. “Can’t complain.”

“I’m sure you could.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my lips from quirking into a traitorous smile. “Okay, fine. I didn’t love the day we fasted.”

Pastor Young laughs. “Fair. But that was the point, right? To reflect on your earthly desires?”

“Sure.”

He turns to greet a new wave of campers, and I lean one shoulder against the doorframe, trying to remember that this whole kind, caring, man-of-God routine is a lie. He wants something, and the second I refuse, he’ll go back to looking at me the way he did that first day on the path. Like I’m something to be fixed.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re having a good time,” he says. “I’ve been praying for you this week, you know. Have you given any more thought to rejoining our Sunday congregation?”

There it is. I give another noncommittal shrug. “Maybe.”

It’s a lie, of course, but Pastor Young’s expression instantly brightens. “That’s great to hear. Truly, I can’t express how much everyone misses having you around.” Then, before I can think of an appropriately neutral response, he lowers his voice and adds, “Your family’s sins aren’t yours to bear.”

Usually, my anger comes out hot, molten fury bubbling in the pit of my stomach. Now, however, all I feel is cold. It crawls up my spine like ice, freezing my smile into place. “I think we might have a different definition of sin, Pastor Young,” I say.

“Let’s hope not.” His hand lands on my shoulder in a way I think is supposed to be reassuring. “Your sister made her choice. That’s not your burden to carry, and I would hate for her bad decisions to impact your relationship with the Lord.”