26

Kit was already gone when Wren shuffled downstairs Saturday morning. Good. She would be away all day at New Hope, and by the time she got home for dinner, Wren would be there. Or maybe not. Maybe she would leave a note to say she had plans for the evening and wouldn’t be back until late. Casey had already texted links to several houses he thought looked promising and was waiting to hear back from landlords. He would pick her up by nine, and they could have breakfast together and brainstorm about people who might make good housemates. Already, he sounded less like Dark Casey and more like Adventurous Casey. She was grateful for that.

She made herself a cup of coffee. She had often witnessed it at Bethel House, how women, after they first escaped abusers, blamed themselves and felt guilty for leaving. If they had scars or bruises, it was sometimes easier to convince them they were right to escape. But when the abuse was psychological or emotional, it was harder to name. Once they became more aware of the common patterns and were able to identify the twisted methods of control and manipulation and name them as evil, many of them began to flourish and grow in self-confidence and courage.

All the victims she had worked with had been women. But everything Casey had described at the coffee shop the night before—the constant monitoring, the cutting off of his old friendships, the verbal berating, the angry outbursts, the physical assaults of striking him or throwing objects—all of it fit the profile of an abuser. Even his “Everything’s fine” text at Thanksgiving was consistent with abuse. When Wren asked him about it, he’d shrugged and said, “I didn’t want you to worry, and I was afraid she would find out I was in touch with you.” On top of that he felt ashamed, he said, ashamed for making such an awful decision to marry her and ashamed for being weak and not standing up to her. So yes, the stress of it all had driven him back to his longtime addictions to alcohol and pornography, but now that he was free of her, he had every expectation of being well again. Thanks to you, Wrinkle. Thanks for never giving up on me.

“So, what do you think?” he asked when she got into his car an hour later. He rubbed his trimmed beard. His hair, still pulled into a man bun, didn’t have the oily sheen of twenty-four hours ago. “I’m going for ‘artist,’ not ‘homeless and unemployed.’”

She smiled. “I think you nailed it.”

“Well, you’ll pull up our respectability factor.” He tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.” She smoothed her pleated skirt. “I’m going for the I’m-on-sabbatical-from-a-real-job-while-I-work-at-my-art look.”

“Crushing it,” he said.

It was just like old times, the two of them talking in the car, Casey tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of his playlist songs while she listened attentively and gave input when he asked for it. There wasn’t much she could offer in terms of ideas for potential housemates. Most of her friends—former friends? acquaintances?—were married or getting married. The others already had roommates or were living in studio apartments or with their parents. She couldn’t picture anyone in her contact list jumping at the opportunity to live in a fixer-upper on Kingsbury’s west side.

But the more she thought about it, the more perfect it seemed. Why not pool limited resources and share life in common? Why not surround herself with other artists who could inspire and encourage creativity? That’s what Vincent had hoped for when he envisioned creating an artists’ community in the south of France. He asked Gauguin to be the leader, the abbot. Theo finally persuaded—bribed, more accurately—Gauguin to move into the Yellow House with Vincent. But it didn’t go well.

She wasn’t going to dwell on that part of the story. She and Casey had enough history together to know one another’s idiosyncrasies and weaknesses. Though they had never roomed together—neither one of them had ever had more than a one-bedroom apartment—they could learn how to be respectful of each other’s need for privacy. She would need her own room. That was non-negotiable. He would need to keep the common areas tidy and not expect her to clean up after him. With the other residents they could mutually negotiate house rules and responsibilities and have regular meetings to talk frankly about how it was going. Even if it was only for a year or so while they regrouped and transitioned toward next things, it could be a rich and fruitful time.

If he would make the commitment to take his medications and address his addictions. She would need to have a firm conversation with him about that.

Her phone rang—her mother again. She should have texted her before she left Kit’s house. But she hadn’t wanted to talk about what happened last night. She didn’t want to hear the anxiety or sorrow or disappointment in her mother’s voice. And she didn’t want to be grilled again about Casey or his plans.

Our plans, she thought. If her mother had freaked out about her quitting her job suddenly, she would be beside herself over this. Wren could hear her now: “But he’s a married man! What are you thinking?” And they could argue about whether that was anything other than a technicality at this point.

Casey had escaped an abusive marriage. That was the bottom line. And he would be moving forward with a divorce. In the meantime, he needed a place to live, and it wasn’t unreasonable that he should first go to his oldest and closest friend to see if she was interested in sharing rent.

The logic of his request wouldn’t matter. Her mother would still regard a man and woman living together, even in separate rooms, as inappropriate. She was old-fashioned that way, probably because of her own past.

Wren turned off her phone and shoved it into her purse.

“Your mom?” Casey asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell her we’re looking at houses?”

“No.” She was a grown woman, and she could make her own decisions without feeling guilty. If they found a house and roommates to share it, then she could make her announcement. But until then it served no good purpose. “No promises about any of this, okay, Casey? If it doesn’t seem like the right situation, for whatever reason, then don’t be mad at me for saying no. We both need to figure out what’s best. Without pressure.”

“I know, but wait until you see the one on Holly Street. I think you’re gonna love it.”

She did love it: the hardwood floors, the arched doorways, the cozy reading nooks, the tiled fireplace, the tall windows. She loved everything about it, except for the rent. “But split four ways,” Casey said after they told the landlord they would think about it and call him. “Or even five or six ways. I could share a room. A couple of those bedrooms are big enough to share.”

Yes, but who would they find to share the rooms? And did she really want to share a house with five other people, especially people she didn’t know? Maybe the whole thing was a really ill-conceived plan.

“Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll find the people. But I think we should snatch it up while we can. I’ve got a bit of savings I can throw at a deposit. What about you?”

“I’ve got nothing. It’s all going to health insurance right now.”

“That’s ridiculous. Total waste of money.”

Typical Casey, she thought, blithely playing roulette. But if she needed to be hospitalized again, then what? Or what if there was another medical emergency? No. She needed insurance. Her mom had already helped her find the cheapest available option that covered her needs, and even then, as a single woman without a full-time job, she could barely make ends meet. She was stuck. Indefinitely. She knew people who raved about healthcare sharing ministries, but those didn’t usually help with prescriptions and counseling appointments. And that’s what she needed: help with mental health expenses because she was “mentally ill.”

Her eyes welled with tears.

“Oh, Wrinkle,” he said, enfolding her in a bear hug. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

As she and Casey wound through other neighborhoods on the west side, Vincent’s sketch Sorrow came to mind, a portrait of a naked, pregnant woman seated on a rock, head bent to her knees, breasts sagging, profile hidden by her clasped arms. His model was Sien, the pregnant prostitute he had found wandering the streets with her little daughter one day. Moved by compassion, he decided to care for her so she wouldn’t be destitute. Because, he told Theo, what man worth anything would abandon such a woman to the streets? Didn’t God’s law of love command something more?

His family didn’t approve.

Wren looked up at a house with torn sheets in the grimy windows and a sagging balcony that looked as if it would collapse if anyone stepped onto it. None of the more affordable properties they’d viewed after the Holly Street house bore any resemblance to photos posted online, and they weren’t in the sort of neighborhood she would feel safe walking around at night.

But this was exactly the sort of community where people like Jake and Erica planted themselves as an incarnational presence. This was the sort of neighborhood they ran toward, not away from. “We filmed somewhere around here for the documentary,” Casey said as he stared through the windshield. “I remember they had this story about this girl, thirteen. Her mom had been pimping her out for months—”

Wren held up her hand. “Sorry. I can’t.”

“No, it’s got a good ending, Wrinkle. Promise.”

She grasped her knees.

“So, this girl, she’s home alone one day when the doorbell rings. She answers it, and it’s a Jehovah’s Witness, and they start talking. I think maybe the girl had met the woman a few times before or something. Anyway, the girl ends up saying something to the woman that makes her suspicious. She makes a call, gets the police involved, and the girl’s rescued, mom’s sent to jail.” He smiled at her. “See? Told you. Happy ending.”

It was never that simple. The wounds from abuse and trauma didn’t get healed overnight, if ever. The poor girl would face years of recovery, if they even managed to get her to a safe place where she could heal. That was never a given. Some of the vulnerable ones remained vulnerable to predators. But she wasn’t going to say that to him. If the story had been a bright spot in his research on trafficking and gave him hope, then that was a good thing.

“Living in a neighborhood like this,” he said, “we could do a lot of good, right? Isn’t that what you always used to say, take the light into the dark?”

Yes. And shine. That’s what she used to say. Before she got overwhelmed by all the helpless, stranded whales. Before she ended up stranded herself.

But if Casey was saying it . . .

If Casey was experiencing a nudge from the Spirit, and if living together in a place like this could help inspire him and fan the embers of his faith, would she not be willing to do everything possible to help him rediscover his passion and sense of purpose? She would give her life for that. She would. She wasn’t being melodramatic thinking that. She would lay down her life for her friend, even if it meant upsetting her family. She was a grown woman. She needed to make her own way. And maybe this was part of God’s rescue plan. For both of them.

The way Casey saw it, there were two possibilities. “Obviously, the Holly Street one is my favorite,” he said as they drove back to Kit’s house later that afternoon. “But if we can’t get enough people to share it, we probably can’t afford it. That last one on Green Street, that’s doable with three or four people, don’t you think?”

“With four people, yes.” It was musty. It was cramped. She would never walk barefoot on the carpets. But yes, four people sharing the two bedrooms could afford it. With the right female roommate, she would be willing to let go of her desire for a private room. But they still didn’t have any ideas about who to invite into the arrangement. And honestly, how many women would be willing to live in a place like that, in a neighborhood like that? When she thought of her own comfortable room at Kit’s, it made no sense, giving that up for relative squalor.

Someone might call her crazy. She might call herself that. But Jesus sometimes called his followers to do crazy, sacrificial things for the sake of love.

And besides. The thought of living in community appealed to her. The thought of keeping a close eye on Casey appealed to her. It wasn’t safe for him to be on his own. And strangers wouldn’t know the warning signs to watch for. If they lived together, they could support each other. If one fell, the other could help him up. That’s what companions in sorrow could do.

“I’ll keep texting people to see if anyone’s interested,” he said. “And if anyone comes to mind from your circles, let me know.”

She didn’t have circles anymore. Maybe she never had.

He pulled into the driveway and turned off the ignition. “Okay if I come in and lie down for a while? I’m beat. And I don’t want to go back to my parents’ house. They’ll just pick up where they left off, beating me up over my choices and grilling me about my plans.” Before she could reply, he opened his car door. Wren stayed glued to the front seat. “What? You don’t want me to come in?”

“No, it’s not that.” She mentally calculated how long it would be before Kit returned.

“What, then?”

“Nothing.” She fiddled with her boot buckle.

“What is it with you and your aunt? Are you ashamed of me or something?”

“No, of course not. It’s just—she’s not home, and I don’t know how she’d feel about someone she doesn’t know sleeping in her house.”

Casey scoffed. “You’re kidding, right? It’s a nap, I’m not moving in.”

“No, I know.” She opened her car door. “You’re right.” If Kit objected to her best friend taking a rest on the futon, then that might be one more indicator it was time to move.

She fumbled in her purse for her key. She had seen a copy of the retreat schedule. It would finish at five. And then Kit would need to put away supplies and lock everything up, and it would be at least six o’clock before she arrived home. Casey would be long gone by then. Kit would never even need to know.

On the front porch Wren stomped the snow from her boots and motioned for him to do the same. “And then take them off”—she opened the door—“and put them on the mat there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stooped to unlace them. “What is she? An older version of Brooke or something?”

“No. I just don’t want to mess up her floors.”

“Whatever.” He exaggerated the motion of placing the boots on the mat, making sure each one was perfectly straight and parallel to the other. “Anything else I need to do to enter?”

“I’ll hang up your coat,” she said as he was about to fling it onto the back of a chair.

With a sigh and shake of his head, he handed it to her. “Where’s your room?”

“Upst—”

He raised his eyebrows.

“But it’s a mess,” she said quickly. “There’s a futon in the den. I’ll show you.”

“Man! What is it with you?” He followed her around the corner. “You’re acting totally weird.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. You’re acting completely bizarre. Chill out. It’s not like I bite.”

“No one said you—”

“Okay, stop. You can be such a mom, you know that?” He brushed past her through the doorway and plopped down onto the futon.

“I’ll get you a blanket.”

He yanked an afghan from the back of the futon and covered himself up. “Make sure you lock me in. Not safe to have me wandering around, right? Might mess something up? Freak someone out?”

“Stop.”

“Just saying, you can never be too careful about welcoming a strange man into the house.”

“Casey, please.” Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to leave him alone in the room. Whenever he became irritable like this, he could be unpredictable. She motioned for him to scoot over. There was room for two. If two lay down together, Ecclesiastes said, they could keep each other warm. She crawled in beside him, a shaggy dog and a little bird defending themselves against the cold.