I say nothing as Isaiah adjusts the temperature slightly. A notable pause lingers between us.
“Long day, huh?” my friend eventually states.
I nod again, gazing out the window as a slate of familiar faces pass us by. I recognize most of the folks strolling around this evening: merry, God-fearing families out for brisk walks as they enjoy a flourishing purple sunset above.
“I really like spending time with you,” Isaiah declares.
I glance back at my friend, appreciating the sincerity of his words. “Thanks. You too.”
“You too?” he repeats, as if my reply needs more explanation.
“I really like spending time with you, too,” I clarify. “You’re a good friend.”
Isaiah appears confused by my response, but I don’t know what else he wants from me. I’d love to dive deep and figure out what’s going on with him, but right now I’m partially distracted by just how ravenously hungry I’ve become. Isaiah wasn’t kidding when he mentioned the length of the day, and after five or six cliff jumps and subsequent climbs back to the top, I’ve found myself yearning for the sweet relief of fat and sugar in my bloodstream.
Thankfully, Mom and Dad assured me dinner would be waiting when I got home.
We ride in silence a while longer before Isaiah reaches out and readjusts the heater, pushing forth the warm air once again and bending to my wishes.
“Thanks.” I chuckle graciously.
“No problem,” he replies, strangely taciturn.
Eventually, Isaiah pulls up to my house, his Jeep turning into the gravel driveway and slowly rolling to a stop with a satisfying crunch.
“Thank you for driving,” I offer, anxious to get inside for dinner.
I throw off my seatbelt and double-check that my backpack and towel are in tow. Swiftly, I throw open the vehicle door and give a slight wave goodbye before hopping out and slamming it shut behind me, then hurry up the front walk.
I’ve only made it a few steps before another loud metallic slam answers my own. Curious, I turn and discover Isaiah has climbed from the driver’s seat and is marching after me.
“Rose!” he calls out.
I wait up, and soon enough we are standing face-to-face. There’s an intensity to his gaze, a tidal wave of emotion welling up within my friend. I can sense the impending cascade of feelings, but its shape and tone remain abstract.
I have no idea what Isaiah could possibly want.
My friend doesn’t say a word, just stares at me blankly as unknown thoughts spiral through his mind. I’ve seen this expression a lot lately, but today it has grown to a boiling point and, to be perfectly frank, it’s starting to frighten me.
“What is it?” I demand.
Isaiah leans forward and kisses me on the lips, a swift movement that’s met with my immediate repulsion.
I pull my neck away in alarm and confusion as our faces meet and then quickly part. My mind is struggling to keep up, desperately piecing together what just happened.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t … that was…”
“Oh, I—I thought—” Isaiah stammers.
Gradually, the true nature of this moment falls into place with breathtaking clarity.
I shake my head, my lips tightly sealed as I let this gesture do the talking.
“So, you’re not…？” Isaiah is still having trouble completing a sentence.
“Definitely not,” I reply.
“But I thought,” he repeats, a surprisingly meek moment for this typically stalwart guy.
“Nope,” I say as my head continues to shake from side to side.
Isaiah takes a moment to straighten up, processing this information in a state of awkward rigidity. I can tell he’s fighting some powerful internal battle, struggling to calm down.
Suddenly, he turns and begins the march back to his car. Before making his way around to the driver’s side, however, Isaiah erupts in a startling display of violence as he punches the passenger door.
I jump as the Jeep makes a hollow metallic thump, startled at first and then concerned for his hand.
That probably hurt.
Isaiah doesn’t react to the pain. Instead, he stomps around the vehicle and climbs inside, slamming the door behind him. He starts his car and hits the gas, peeling onto the road in reverse and scattering gravel everywhere.
I watch in silence, still not sure how to react as Isaiah’s Jeep disappears down the road.
Eventually, the front door opens behind me and my father sticks his head out, his chiseled jaw and familiar black-framed glasses shadowed in the dying light of day.
“Was that Isaiah?” he calls. “You should’ve asked him to stay for dinner.”
Seconds later, my father realizes the porch light is off and makes an awkward humph sound that it seems only dads are capable of. He quickly flips a switch, illuminating the scene.
“There’s my girl,” he says.
I solemnly retreat to my father, still completely silent as I wrap my arms around him in a warm embrace. We stand like this for a moment as I allow his protective paternal aura to envelop me, then I finally pull back as my stomach gurgles.
I can already smell the garlic spaghetti sauce as it bubbles and churns on our kitchen stove. I’m thrilled Mom opted for pasta this evening.
My father, Luke Darling, is a kind-eyed man with dark features and thick glasses that make him look like Superman. Of course, just like Peter Pan, I’ve never actually read a Superman comic, but the cultural relevance of this secular hero has somehow permeated my life.
It’s concerning. Jesus Christ is the only true superhero.
“I’m so hungry,” I announce.
“Hi, So Hungry. I’m Dad,” my father retorts, prompting a playful groan to escape my throat.
We head inside and I immediately find myself bathed in spiritual warmth, a cozy sensation that causes the ice in my veins to melt away. That lingering chill has finally taken its leave, disappearing with such little fanfare I hardly remember it was there in the first place.
My mother, Lisa, greets me in the kitchen with a loud and excited wail. “Rose!” she cries out as though I’ve been gone for years, a sauce-covered wooden spoon gripped tightly in her hand. “My baby is back!”
Mom wraps her arms around me and plants a firm kiss on my cheek. When she pulls away, she immediately motions to the dining room table, coaxing me toward my place setting at the end.
“Hope you’re hungry,” she continues. “I made spaghetti.”
“I can smell that,” I reply warmly, “with extra garlic.”
My parents exchange excited glances, thrilled by this culinary transgression. We’re being bad tonight.
Mom is always well put together, but this evening she’s looking especially done up with a lime green dress and a string of pearls around her neck. Her makeup is less subtle than usual, a little extra red in the tone of her lips that she wouldn’t dare try if we were leaving the house this evening, and her stark blond hair is held back with a white band across the top of her head. She’s a small woman but full of energy, and tonight her natural beauty is on full display.
People say we look alike, and right now I can truly appreciate what a compliment that is.
I take my seat at the end of the table while my mother continues to move back and forth across the kitchen, hard at work as she guides this meal across the finish line with radiant enthusiasm.