Page 74 of Haunt Me

And that was it.

Yeah, that was it. It was enough to get my brain stuck on you the very first second.

Dots. She is typing.Oh? And when did it get unstuck?

I look at the screen. How can she ask me that?

“Never,” I answer quietly, but I don’t text it to her.

Book Margin

The book: Eden’s copy ofPride and PrejudicebyJane Austen

This has gotten out of control.

It’s one thing for me to love him—I have known that for ages, but now he does too? He loves me?

No. This can’t happen.

This needs to stop.

Now, or I’m going to be eternally condemned.

On the other hand, maybe I am already? And maybe I like it.

How many times must I have been condemned to hell and back again, according to what Father has taught me? I’ve lost count. I’ve lost count of my sins. But if I were to actually go to hell, I’d rather it was not because I ate gum or read Jane Austen behind his back. I’d rather it was because Isaiah told me he loved me and I said it back.

And because he kissed me. And I…

Oh no. I’m definitely going to hell after everything I have done. But I don’t even care anymore.

No, I’m glad.

nineteen

It’s like the dam has burst open. After that desperate, earth-shattering kiss, that’s all we do. We kiss.

Spring break comes and goes. We kiss all throughout it.

I sit next to her, I study. I kiss her. My grades soar; I am living on a cloud.

The weather gets warmer, and she exchanges her thick oversized sweaters for a cardigan. I rip it off her and kiss the corner of her bare shoulder. She smiles and blushes so furiously that I don’t do more than that. But I want to. I want to.

I want to take her to Boston and introduce her to my mom and grandpa, but she keeps changing the subject. I don’t press her. She has stopped reading so much, and I know that means that she no longer needs to escape.

She just sits next to me, gazing at the clouds, her eyes clear, her forehead unmarred by a frown. I am looking at her.

“I think I want…” she starts, then stops.

“What, baby?”

“No, I don’t want, Ineedto pray,” she says, and I shift uncomfortably. The woods are lovely and green, heavy with late spring.Wait, this is from a poem, right? No, concentrate. First Eden, then poetry.“Do you…? Can you teach me?” she asks.

“I no longer believe in God,” I shrug. “I used to, but I can’t believe in a God who would do that to my dad. To my mom. To my family.”

“I do believe,” she says. “I have to. But I don’t… I can’t pray to Him like people who love Him do. Loving Him and believing are two very different things.”

I choke on pure air. She is right.

---