Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(40)

At least I hope a bad signal is the reason she hasn’t texted back. I tried not to be too weird when we hugged goodbye, though admittedly, her hug then was weaker than the hug she gave me when we were sitting on the bench in the station.

Crap.

She said “sorry” several times, and I’m sure she sensed I wasn’t giving her the kind of hug I usually do—thanks to my friggen pep talk with Jonah. He was right, though. I don’t want to give her the wrong impression, and if I’m left feeling like this after not hugging her the way I wanted to, I better be careful. I know how quickly desires can get ahead of someone. I don’t want to hurt anyone—Kennedy especially—so I need to be careful since I’m destined to be screwed up in that area.

Kennedy says she doesn’t believe in fate or destiny, and I know that I shouldn’t, either, but it’s hard not to when you watch your father fall into the same manhole that swallowed his own father decades before. I never met Granddaddy Wells, as my mother still affectionately refers to him, but I can’t say I long for that missed opportunity. He drank himself to death a few years before I was born, a fact my father was sure to remind me of during his “anti-everything” campaigns warning me of the dangers of sex, drugs, and alcohol.

Funny that I didn’t even have to feed him his own words when the time came; stepping away from the pulpit after tiredly addressing his congregation for the last time was the only public service announcement he needed. Even if he gave it to himself.

I could have gotten home quicker had someone come to pick me up. I’d have saved myself two hours if my mom came with my sister and drove me home, but I couldn’t risk it. Worse than spending five hours on a train to Atlanta, and another hour and a quarter in a car back north to Rome would be spending a full four-and-a-half hours in the car with my father, if he’d chosen to come. Even worse still would have been a drive with just the two of us.

I’m happy to have this time to chill out after what’s been an interesting semester at Carter University so far—made even more interesting by the addition of Kennedy Sawyer into my life. I crack a grin when I think back to her asking me to come to that Bible study with her. I gave her a hard time, but the truth is I would have followed her into a bar if she’d asked me to. Even if it was just for the chance to watch her.

I know there’s far more depth to her than even she shows, which is a lot, and I can’t help but be drawn to whatever energy it is she puts out. The fact that Roland and my dad are old college friends, and her mom knows my dad, might complicate things. I don’t want my dad in any part of my life right now—let alone my personal life. But if Kennedy’s mom, Wendy, thinks she’s buddy-buddy with “Buck,” even more so than she is with Roland, we’ll have problems.

Shaking my head, I work to clear my head of these thoughts. I have no business planning a future with a girl who wants nothing to do with a screwed up Southern PK. Truth is, what business would we even have being in a relationship with each other? While I’m not firm on many political issues, a wild guess is more than I need to tell me where Kennedy and I would fall on either side of any given issue. And, while it’s all well and good to think we should just get to be friends for a while before we delve into politics—as I even suggested on our walk through the woods a couple weeks ago—it really will only make things worse. The closer you are to someone when the gauntlet falls, the more you’re splattered in the fallout.

A notification of a text message dings through my earbuds as I thumb through my music to find an appropriate playlist for the rest of the ride home. My heart nearly stops when I see it’s from Kennedy



Kennedy: Just got a few of your text messages at once. Service has sucked.





Me: No worries. How’s your ride going?



My palms sweat as I try to feign normal conversation with her, when my feelings are anything but.

Kennedy: It’s going to be like twelve hours, but nothing crazy to report yet, thankfully. Except some drunk guy who’s been on the train since somewhere on the West Coast. Unfortunately for Red Sox Nation, he’s wearing Boston gear from head-to-toe as he tells the car his tales of broken-heartedness.

My jaw drops at Kennedy’s assertion that this doesn’t fall under the category of “crazy.” Then I remember she’s not that far from New York City. Still, it’s unsettling.



Me: Can you switch cars? Is he still drinking?



Kennedy: Shrugs Probably. He has a Gatorade bottle, but if I were a betting woman—which I’m not—I’d bet 100 to 1 that there isn’t a single drop of electrolyte goodness in that bottle. It smells like a frat house.

Kennedy: I think. I’ve never been in a frat house, but this is what I imagine one would smell like. Tales of woe … and moonshine.

I laugh out loud, causing the middle-aged woman across the aisle from me to grin and shake her head. Kennedy texts again before I have a chance to respond.



Kennedy: Wait! Have you had moonshine before?





Me: No.



I try to think of something wittier to say, but she’d out-perform me in the wit category eight times out of ten, if I showed up to every challenge she invited me to, so I need to choose my battles carefully.



Kennedy: You’re lying.