Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(77)

“Love you, too,” Eden replies softly.

“Me, too,” Bridgette adds.

We hug for a few seconds more before each going our own ways for the next six weeks.

Six whole weeks. With Roland.

God, I know I haven’t fully checked in lately, but … just … do what you’re gonna do here, but return me in one piece, okay?





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX





Anything Could Happen





Roland.




Villa Hills.

Crossing over the town line, my eyes drift to Kennedy, who’s had her head against the window, sleeping for the last two hours. We weren’t up too late last night, but I suspect that finals being over, as well as the emotions surrounding this visit have caught up with her.

“Hey,” I whisper, tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

She startles easily, something she warned me about last night. She told me to be loud coming up the stairs if I needed her for something, because she hates being caught off guard.

I can appreciate that.

“What?” She sits up, rubbing her eyes, then looking at her hands before flipping down the visor to look at herself in the mirror. “Phew,” she says like she’s talking to no one in particular. “I thought I had mascara on.”

I chuckle, appreciating the few unguarded seconds I have with her before she’s fully awake. “We’re going to be there in ten minutes. I wanted you to have some time …” I trail off, not knowing how to finish that sentence, but knowing she wouldn’t want to wake up in the driveway of a house she’s never been to, and likely thought she’d never visit.

She leans over, pulling a small, zippered bag from her backpack. My focus is on the road, slowly navigating the streets of my parents’ town, but from the corner of my eye I can see she’s putting on makeup. I don’t officially know what that means, but I take it at as a good sign that she seems to care about her appearance.

After a few minutes, Kennedy shoves the small bag back into her backpack and runs her hands through her hair a few times before flipping the visor back up and settling back into her seat.

“Nora and Tim, right?” she asks, her eyes forward.

I nod. She’s asked me their names a few times throughout the semester. Taking a deep breath, I think back to my conversations with my parents over the last couple of weeks. They’ve held onto cautious optimism, hoping something wouldn’t come up to prevent meeting Kennedy.

They didn’t know she existed while growing inside her mother. They didn’t know about her until sometime during her second year of life when I was on another bender. I wasn’t sure of Kennedy’s birthday at the time, but I was smart enough to do the math.

Of course they were heartbroken to learn of a child they’d never get to know. For a while they tried to get me to go to court to have my parental rights reinstated, but the longer I stayed married to the bottle, the more they left it alone. The more they let Kennedy slip from their hopes and recognize that Wendy and her family were the only choice to raise her. They didn’t try to get involved with her when they saw how much help I needed to manage my own life. They took care of me, and let God take care of the rest.

It took me ten years to show them the picture that was mailed to me from Kennedy’s fifth birthday. It was what had turned me around, after all, but back then I hadn’t wanted them to know that. I didn’t need them to keep bringing her up if and when I screwed up. Kennedy’s smile and blissful ignorance of her piss-eyed father slithering through the streets of Northern Kentucky was the only motivation I needed. Not the most gorgeous or polite imagery, I realize.

But the truth rarely is.

“Here we are,” I say with a deep breath, turning into the short driveway of my parents’ modest home.

“It’s pretty,” Kennedy half-whispers, assessing the wide front lawn and tidy shrubbery around the front stairs.

The two-story four-bedroom structure is plenty more than two aging people in need of various body-part replacements need, but its almost cramped around the holidays when their three children and six grandchildren come visit. Seven, now. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s really coming, right? She’s in the car with you?

That text rolled in around noon today, shortly after Kennedy and I stopped for lunch. I can’t help but feel this cautionary excitement has less to do with Kennedy and more to do with their perception of my ability to develop a relationship with the daughter I abandoned.

You didn’t abandon her; you gave her a life by walking away. You know that.

“You good?”

Kennedy’s words bring me back, and I realize we’ve been idling in the driveway for roughly a minute. With a confident nod, I kill the engine and retrieve our bags from the trunk, though Kennedy insists on carrying hers.

“It’s just a bag. I can manage.” Her dry sarcasm has a hint of hesitation around me.

I’ve heard her in action a time or two with her friends before she knew I was standing nearby. She’s a natural around people, captivating them with each word she speaks. It’s not just the CU set, either—I saw it when she was in high school, too.

Well, she’s got your charisma.

Wendy admitted that in a defeatist tone shortly before Kennedy’s high school graduation. She’s always viewed her interpretation of my charisma as a defect, while I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to turn it into a strength. I don’t know if there will ever be a final verdict from where I stand, but given the proper grooming, I’m sure Kennedy can make fine use of it.