ROSALIE
MONDAY, JANUARY 15
At Youth Ministry, the memory of last night sticks in my throat like a stone I can’t swallow down. When it’s my turn to share my affirmation of the profound word, I tap into old reserves—the ones I learned from Michael. Flip the switch, get numb. Another girl’s voice spills from my lips, professes how true healing can’t begin until we know we’re broken, how it’s through darkness that His way is revealed as pure light. Brother Masters praises my bravery and leads us in a hymn about Jesus, our strong tower. I raise my arms and sway along with Ivan Brophy and Beth Clark and Emily Masters and everyone else, but my mind is a million miles from God’s Grace.
I let this happen. When Carter came into my life, I thought I’d found my delivery from church offices and camp isolation rooms and my parents’ watchful eye. I should have known better than to believe in miracles. I spin the purity ring around and around on my finger.
When we’re all bundling up in our coats and scarves, Brother Masters pulls me aside. His hair, thick and blond like Emily’s, is creased up at a funny angle from his snow cap.
“I liked what you had to say today, Rosalie. It is through recognizing the darkness within us that we come to see His light.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, jamming my hands into my gloves.
“But you seem distracted,” he continues, and I know I’m not off the hook. As always, my performance was good, but not good enough. “When you focus on strengthening your relationship with Jesus, that’s when true progress happens. This summer, I’m leading a mission trip to a rural community in Kentucky. It’s a place a lot like Culver Ridge, and we have the special opportunity to bring our Fellowship ministry to the people there. I’ll be announcing the details in a few weeks, but I wanted to tell you now.” His look says this is a prize, a secret between us.
I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral.
“You’ll be eighteen by July?”
“I will,” I say hesitantly.
“I’d like you come, Rosalie. To assist me, as a Youth Ministry leader.” He clasps my hand in his, and I can feel the force of his grip even through my glove.
His offer should be an honor, but it feels like a threat. I promise to think about it, then duck outside before Ivan can shower me with stories about his day with Mission Driven.
On the ride home with Dad, the snow is really coming down, a rush of thick, wet flakes that have already piled up three feet deep on the sidewalks. We drive slow, and I tell him about Brother Masters’s mission trip. I talk as if I might actually go. As if I won’t have already moved out, won’t be living in Pittsburgh with Pau. More lies, but it’s worth it for this brief moment. Dad looks delighted. This might be one of the last times he looks at me that way.
• • •
When I’m finally in my room with the chair jammed under the doorknob, I change out of my church clothes and start packing my pen. It’s almost ten, and my nerves are shot. I just need to relax and crawl into bed. I crack the window and breathe the vapor in until my chest unlocks, a slow liquid warmth spreading from my lungs to the tips of my fingers and toes. Then, I lie on my bed, on top of the covers, and let myself float. Eventually, I turn my phone on and plug it into the charger. I haven’t checked it for hours; no screens at Youth Ministry.
My notifications light up immediately. I have a series of texts, a missed call from a local number, and an unheard voice mail. I press play.
“This is Meghan calling from Mercy Hospital in Logansville. I’m calling at the request of a patient here, Carter Shaw. Rosalie, Mr. Shaw was in a car accident this afternoon. He’s currently in surgery, but has asked that you get in touch with him as soon as possible.”
My heart jumps to my throat. I need Carter to be out of my life, but also, I need him to be okay. To live out a long and happy future with Amanda, as if I’d never meddled. A small voice inside my head says this accident was somehow my fault. I pushed him away, didn’t give him anything close to a real explanation. Maybe he did something dangerous, because of me.
I click over to my texts, and everything shifts into focus. Two new group messages from Private, claiming responsibility for something Amanda and I supposedly made him or her do. Carter in the hospital, Private’s promise that “it will be much, much worse next time.” This was no accident. I send a quick text to the other number on the chat.
Is this Amanda? What’s going on?
The reply comes right away.
Stay out of this. I’ll handle it.
Fine, great.
She doesn’t text back.
I don’t feel fine or great. I feel dead sober. I feel scared. I also feel like the worst person in the world. I open up a new message to Carter.
Are you okay? Someone from the hospital called.
Rosalie.
Hey.
I through you wear ignoring the wounded.
What? Sorry. Youth Ministry tonight.
Ripe, forgot. Typing with once hand. Can we FaceTime?
A fist of worry tightens inside my chest. This needs to be a clean break. I can’t get sucked back in. But Carter’s in the hospital, probably because of me—because I ignored Private’s demands. My pesky, worthless conscience says I owe him a few minutes on FaceTime.
When he answers the call, he’s a mess. Bandaged face, weird hospital lighting. He holds up his arm to show me the cast.
“You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“I think it was a car. But yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not really sure? I was walking by school. You may have noticed there’s a snowstorm.” He cracks a smile. “Ouch.”
“Out of control driver?”
“Yeah, drove up on the sidewalk. I don’t really remember, but a snowbank caught me. Broke my arm and cracked a couple ribs, but I’ll be fine.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Carter.” Because I did this to you. Because this is my fault. I force myself to smile.
“Rosalie, listen, I was thinking. About yesterday—”
“Carter, look—”
“No, let me finish. Remember that car? The one that almost hit me when you were on your bike, and I was in the other lane?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not a coincidence.” His voice is dead serious. Determination radiates through the bandages.
“You think it was the same driver?” But that was before I texted Private.
Carter shakes his head gently. “No, listen. Yesterday, I almost got into an accident, but you were there. You saved me. Today, you weren’t here.”
I suck in a quick breath, and he continues. “Don’t you see it, Rosalie? There’s a connection. It’s a sign we’re not supposed to be apart.” I start to shake my head back and forth, but he keeps talking. “It’s like yesterday, there was a shield around me, and today, that shield was gone.”
“Carter—” I start to say. He has it all wrong. He almost got into an accident yesterday because he was driving in the wrong lane.
“You believe in God, right, Rosalie?”
I stare at him on the screen, my mouth hanging open. He sounds like my parents, their believer’s addiction to the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Is Carter Shaw about to ask me if I’ve taken Jesus into my heart?
“Rosalie?” he asks again.
“Of course I do,” I say slowly. Despite everything the Fellowship has taken away from me, they can’t take away God. Even if I can’t picture what our relationship will look like once I leave the FOC behind.
Carter nods. “I’ve never been sure, until tonight. But this accident was a sign from God.”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t have to say anything right now. Just think about it. We’re supposed to be together, Rosalie. I love you so much. I really need you right now.”
For the second time in as many days, I can feel the air being squeezed out of my lungs. I’ve told so many lies, and now, this is my punishment.
I force myself to take in a shaky breath. “I think you need some rest. This must be really stressful.”
“Wish you were here,” he says. “I miss you.”
I give him a weak smile. “Take care, okay?”
Before he can say anything else, I end the video call. Carter could have been killed today. I slam my fist into my mattress with an unsatisfying thud. Here I am, still stuck in this mess. I have to unmask Private before we find out what’s next, but the one person who could help me hates my guts. A heart-to-heart with my family is out of the question, and because of the holiday weekend, I haven’t seen Pau since Friday. I am totally alone.
I get under the covers without brushing my teeth, then stare up at the ceiling and follow the lines where the paint has cracked. Just one of the many home repairs we never got around to making. If I look at it one way, it’s a network, a road map. Endless paths. But when I look again, it’s a just a broken web. My life on display, all the threads torn apart.