“Perfect,” Mark says, clapping him on the shoulder.
I turn toward my mother, who’s busy fixing Caleb’s tie.
“Mom…”
She glances up at me.
“What’s Dad talking about?” I ask. “What club are they trying to take down?”
When she looks in their direction, I notice the way her features stiffen like she’s annoyed. “None of your concern, Adam. Don’t worry about it, love.”
A moment later, my father rejoins us, but Mark stays on the sidelines. And when the assistants finally open the doors, my family is all standing together like we’re posing for a Christmas card, smiling and waving.
When my eyes adjust to see the crowd waiting out front, my smile fades and my eyes widen. This is a lot bigger than the congregation we had at our last church.
My dad steps out first, waving at everyone with a big, proud smile. Once their cheers and applause have faded, he makes a little speech while I stare in surprise at everyone waiting to come in. Dad had been getting more and more popular at our last church, but I had no idea it was like this. Is this from that book he wrote?
The next thing I know, he cuts the ribbon and then the congregation is all rushing in. They smile at me, thank me, and take their programs one by one. Then Dad positions himself at my side, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder as he helps me pass out programs.
We do that together, and when he glances at me during the chaos of it all, he smiles, and it feels so good because he never looks at me like that.
The crowd of people slows down, and during a quieter moment, he squeezes my shoulder. He’s happy, and I wish he could be like this forever.
And I don’t know why, but I want to show him I’m old enough now. I’m not a kid anymore and he can include me in things that he doesn’t include the younger boys in. “So, what were you and Mark talking about?” I ask.
He responds with a confused expression, so I continue.
“Some club you want to shut down.”
His jaw clenches as he inhales through his flared nostrils.
I’m nearly as tall as him now, so when he turns me toward him, I can look directly into his eyes. “There are people in this world who threaten the values we hold close, Adam.
Temptation our community shouldn’t be exposed to. It’s our job to protect these good people, Adam. It’s our job to protect their souls. Do you understand?”
Silently, I nod.
Then he glances around the giant entryway of this new church. “This will all be yours someday, Adam. You want that,
don’t you?”
Do I? This wouldn’t be so bad. I could get used to all of this attention. Plus, the people are all so nice.
“Yeah, I would.”
“Good,” he replies, squeezing my shoulder again. “Then, just follow my lead.”
In that moment, with my father by my side, I feel so much pride and hope that I never want a single thing to change. It’s like the first day of my brand-new life because now I have a purpose. Together with my father, we will save this city. We’ll save their souls and make the world a better place.
My father is a good man, and what we’re doing is good, really good.
For the first time in my life, I feel like a hero.
April
The Son
One
Adam
T he bell chimes over the door of Sal’s Diner as I pull it open, immediately welcomed by the scent of frying bacon and coffee. The place is packed, and I let out a grumble as I squeeze through the horde of patrons to reach the hostess stand.
The young woman behind the booth greets me with wide eyes and a flirtatious smile.
“Mr. Goode,” she chimes happily as she picks up a menu.
“Good morning, Veronica,” I reply with a grin.
She blushes as her gaze lingers on my face for a moment too long, clearly chuffed by the fact that I remembered her name. Then, she spins toward the bar, and her expression falls when she notices that every single stool is occupied, including the one on the corner that I always take.
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
“It’s okay, Veronica. I can wait.”
“I’m really sorry,” she repeats, looking apologetic, but I shake my head at her as I quietly ease into the corner of the crowded waiting area, pulling out my phone in hopes that it will hide my face enough to not be noticed here.
Apparently, Sal’s has picked up in popularity over the last few months. It doesn’t help that Austin is filled to the brim with trendy brunch spots—it would appear that greasy spoon diners are back in because every hipster tourist or college kid within a thirty-mile radius has started packing in the tiny restaurant each weekend.
My regular Saturday morning diner.
The only saving grace is that most hipster tourists and college kids don’t know who I am. Unless their parents tuned
into my father’s Sunday morning program, they don’t know Adam Goode from Adam Levine.
And my Saturday morning breakfast is the only time I like it that way.
Any other day or time, I’d be happy to smile for selfies or sign their King James Versions, but this is my time. This is when I get my writing done, where I can really focus and create my best sermons. I usually watch recordings of old sermons on my phone before digging into writing my own.
I have my own office at the church, but I prefer working elsewhere. When I’m here, surrounded by the white noise chatter of the breakfast patrons, I feel as if I can really tap into something deeper.
Someday I might not have this option. I’ll be too busy running the church instead of just writing sermons for it.
Eventually, it will be me at that pulpit on Sunday mornings. But for now, it’s still him.
So, until then…waffles and coffee.
“Just one?” a warm voice chirps from the hostess stand, and I glance up from my phone to see a mess of pink waves on a petite frame standing near the front. “It’ll be about thirty to forty-five minutes.”
The woman’s shoulders sag as the look of defeat washes over her entire stance. “Seriously? I just got off the late shift and I’m famished. Can I put in an order to go?”
The girl grimaces. “It’ll probably take that long to fill the order, to be honest.”
“Fuck my life,” the woman groans.
My eyes subtly rake over her body, from her brightly colored hair down to her black boots. She’s not wearing much, exposing her belly, back, and limbs all covered in ink. Various tattoos are stamped across her body like someone was bored in class and spent their time doodling on her sun-kissed skin.
The black crop top she’s in stops somewhere along the middle of her back, and those blue jean cutoffs leave a gap in
the high waistline like she bought a size too big.
Wincing, I curse myself for staring at the woman’s ass like some perverted gawker. Biting my bottom lip, I turn my attention back to my phone. I’m watching the broadcast from last year, a sermon about morality playing in the AirPod stuffed in my left ear.
A blur of pink enters my periphery as the tattooed girl takes a seat on the bench next to me. I glance her way, shooting her a polite smile before staring back at my phone.
The girl lets out a sigh, followed by a soft moan as she rubs her forehead. I catch sight of her bloodred nail polish and the tiny tattooed symbols on each of her delicate, long fingers.