Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(5)

“Excuse me,” I mumble to Kennedy and whoever might be in earshot, and I walk toward his towering shadow. I’d say his presence, rather than shadow, but he hasn’t been present for quite some time. My breath quickens the closer I get to him, and my hands ball into fists inside my pockets.

“Matthew,” he clears his throat but speaks while barely moving his lips, his jaw set tight.



I draw a deep breath through my nose, exhaling my response. Careful that no one else hears me. “What the hell are you doing here?”





CHAPTER THREE





Cough Syrup





Matt.




The back of my throat burns as the curse flies out of my mouth toward my father. His eyes close in one long blink, as he seems to let the words wash over him while he takes a deep breath. His rigid jaw flexes before he speaks.



Under normal circumstances, words like this would have granted me an open-palmed slap across the face. I’m sure of it, though I’ve never had the gall until this very moment. A moment when I know there’s nothing he can do or say.



“Matthew,” his voice is raspier than usual, even in his whisper, “ I know you’re hurt, but that’s no excuse to forget the kind of man you are. Or where you are. I suggest you start that over again.”

I swallow hard, my hands, now at my sides fighting to bunch into fists. “Yes, sir.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”



He tilts his chin toward the room. “Seems you’ve gotten yourself into something here.”

I shrug. “Kennedy’s a friend, Dad.”

“Girlfriend by the sound of things.” His tongue moves slowly over his lips as his eyes roam the room. I can tell by how they widen that they’ve settled on Kennedy.

I swallow hard and roll my eyes. “You above most people in this room know that we shouldn’t take rumors at face value.”



Screw him, I’m an adult.



“There’s so much you don’t know, Matthew.” He lowers his head, and for a second I see my dad. The real him. The one I know is buried deep in there somewhere.

“And just as much that you won’t tell me. Why didn’t you come to Parents’ Weekend?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to come … here.” He gestures behind him to where the sanctuary is located. “I’ve got a lot I’m working through, Son. You know that.”



“Yeah,” I snap. “We all know that.”



For a brief moment I’m thrown back into the living hell of the last year of my life. One that started with me fighting my dad because I didn’t want to come here, and ended with me fighting to be able to. His burnout began by affecting his work and family life. But now? Now it’s traveled so deep into his soul that his eyes are barely recognizable anymore. While a huge part of my heart wants to feel compassion for him, and knows I should, the moral trauma he’s put our family through—and is still putting us through—is too much for me to extend the hand I know he needs.

God’s gonna have to reach all the way down for this one.

“Perhaps we should continue this in the hallway.” Dad backs one foot out of the room, extending his hand.

I shake my head. “I have nothing to continue with you right now. I’m here supporting my friend. Shouldn’t you be supporting yours?” His ability to support me is clearly zero, so I gesture to Roland. “I know you didn’t come all this way to ask me about some girl.”

Some girl?

I crane my neck to look for Kennedy, who is hardly some girl. She’s staring openly at my dad and me, but turns around as soon as she sees I’ve spotted her. She leans in to whisper something to her mom and then walks over to her friends. Well my friends too, I guess, though I haven’t really laid any claim in that department yet. Friends just ask questions and make assumptions.

Kind of like you’re doing right now?

I squeeze my eyes shut. Opening them, I find Roland just a few feet from me, extending his hand to my dad with a genuine Roland-trademarked smile.

“Buck,” he says with a hint of question in his voice, “it’s good to see you, friend.”

Hm. I’ve never actually heard Roland call my dad Buck before. I knew that was his nickname in college, but hadn’t heard anyone other than high school friends of his refer to him in that way until Kennedy’s mom used that name a few days ago on the phone.

“Roland.” Dad gives Roland the firmest handshake I’ve seen him muster up in a while.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, feeling for my cell phone in my pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

I show myself into the hallway and duck into the first men’s bathroom I see before tapping my parents’ home number.

“Hello?” Mom answers in her best pastor’s wife voice. She may not live in that emotional country anymore, but she still carries the accent.

“Mama, what’s he doing here?” After spending the last couple of days talking a lot with Kennedy, I can actually hear how thick my accent is when my mom’s on the other end of the line. It’s always been thicker when I’m angry. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude,” I quickly correct my tone while silently cursing myself. She’s going through enough.