“The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray.”

~Oscar Wilde

JC pulled at the baggy fabric of his jeans, feeling far younger than his twenty-five years.  He knew he should be concentrating on why Professor House had called him into his office, but all he could think of were the hundred messages he’d left on Tony’s answering machine and how unlikely it was that Tony would answer any of them.  It had just been a misunderstanding, the whole thing, and if Tony would only pick up then he could explain it and repair their six year friendship. 

“JC, JC.  My most gifted student.”  Professor House pulled out a thick file and assessed JC from his side of the desk.  “I can’t pretend to understand why you haven’t made any solid plans for after graduation, but can I make the assumption that you aren’t looking forward to unemployment?” 

“Yes sir,” JC mumbled.  He and Tony had planned on getting a place together so they could concentrate on their music while they worked some kind of ministry on the side.  Now it was only two weeks until they graduated from seminary and JC hadn’t even started looking for an apartment.   He’d always prided himself on knowing exactly what he wanted out of life, and those things had been always been music, the spotlight, and some way to give back to God everything he’d been given. 

Maybe if he caught up with Tony outside the bakery where Tony worked part time, he thought for the millionth time.  Except no…that might be considered stalker-like, and all JC wanted was to explain himself.  Writing a song for someone was a gift, and most people would be honored.  Just thinking about Tony’s silent, grim-faced reaction deepened the pit in JC’s stomach. 

“Hear me out on this, then.  I know of a church that’s looking for a pastor, and I’d like for you to go down there, let them try you out.” 

A pastor?  JC finally looked up from his pants.  He must have heard wrong, because pastoring an entire church was something that was years of experience away.  It was too much, not even an option, yet there was something about the idea of him standing behind his very own pulpit…he could see it, the faces of the people when he shared aspects of God with them that they hadn’t ever known.  Maybe this was what God wanted for him; maybe he would find something at this church.  Some kind of peace.  

“Why would they even want me?”

“Give them the chance to let you inspire them,” House urged.  “They’ll want you.”  He removed his glasses and folded them up carefully.  “I went to school with one of their deacons.  They’re having some growing pains, nothing any different than what all churches go through, but they can’t afford to pay very much.  Still, room and board and more experience than you could get anywhere else.  At the very least, pray about it and see what you’re led to do.”

JC slid his hand into his pocket, let it rest on his silent phone, and knew that he wasn’t going to say no.  It wasn’t like he knew what else to do.

***

JC leaned out the window of his apartment and took in the pleasing view.  The neighborhood was nice enough, and he could see the church’s steeple from his window.  He had the upstairs apartment; downstairs was the building’s owner who according to the deacons was available for any maintenance needs.  JC hadn’t met him yet- Chris, they had called him- but something about the flat, dismissing way they spoke of him had piqued his curiosity.  At night he could hear Chris moving around downstairs, and he already knew Chris’ routine almost as well as his own. 

He’d only called Tony twice in the entire week he’d been there, and of those two times he’d only left a message once.  It was progress.  His new life was a good distraction, but not quite good enough yet.  He supposed it would just take some more time, and here in Fox Creek there was nothing but time.

 A figure carrying a bag of groceries walked into view, and JC leaned a little further.  “Hi,” he called.  “Chris?” 

The man stopped right beneath the window and when he looked up, he pushed dark, messy hair out of his face to blink up at JC.  JC waved, and all of a sudden he was a choir geek again, staring into the faces of ten hostile burnouts.  Unlike JC’s childhood foes, Chris didn’t seem dangerous so much as just very suspicious as he squinted up at JC for a few moments before quirking his mouth into something like a smile.  “You must be the new preacher,” he said.  He shifted his grocery bag to the other arm, which gave JC a good look at the elaborate tattoo that twisted its way from wrist to elbow.

“Yeah.  That’s me.  JC,” he said like an idiot.

“Jesus.  You’re so freaking young.” Chris said.  “You must’ve given one hell of a sermon.” 

“I did my best.”  He’d wanted the job and had gone after it with every ounce of his competitive nature.  It had never even occurred to him that he wouldn’t get the job.  He needed it for his own sanity as much as anything else.

“It probably didn’t hurt that you were willing to work for pennies.” 

“Well."  That was no one's business.  "I’m not very experienced,” he admitted.

“No one around here is,” Chris laughed.  “You’ll fit right in,” he said, and JC was pretty sure it wasn’t intended to be a compliment. 

One of the deacons told JC to steer clear of Chris, which made him the most interesting person in town as far as JC was concerned.  When he asked about Chris people whispered their answers, yet it was apparently all right for JC to live in the same house as Chris, whose biggest crime as far as JC had seen was speaking too quickly and saying ridiculous things.  Sometimes JC wondered if anyone had told Chris to steer clear of him, because he avoided contact with JC, but whenever they happened to meet studied JC with razor-sharp eyes. 

It was easy to fall into a routine after just a few weeks.  The church was only a few blocks away, and the daily walk took him through quiet, friendly neighborhoods where the sidewalks were overrun with cracks.  The trees stretched high and far, providing a sheltering canopy on hot days, and JC used the time to think about his sermons; what they were and what he wanted them to be.  Most of the time they were the one and the same, sometimes they weren’t. 

His office was just past the sanctuary, down the hall and to the right.  It was the one perk the church had been able to provide when they’d hired him.  The office was roomy, full of light, and stocked with as many books as he could ever want to read.  He did want to read them, but the little things seemed to take up most of his days, and that was okay, too.  He liked just knowing they were there.    

Diane Bass did secretary work in the morning, which meant there was always industrial-strength coffee waiting when he arrived.  It also meant that there was a neatly printed list of people to visit in the hospital, phone calls to return, and—most recently—counseling appointments.

“JC.”  Diane popped her head through the open door, flashing him a toothy, fond grin.  She was always perfectly coiffed and smelled of mint gum and hair spray like so many of JC’s mother’s friends back home.  “Lynn Harless is here to see you.” 

Lynn, Lynn, Lynn…  JC nodded his approval, sifting through the hundred and fifty new faces and names he’d been trying to learn in the past few weeks.  When Mrs. Harless walked in JC recognized her curly hair and the way her cool, lotion-damp hand lingered a little too long in his own.  He also recognized the teenaged boy who lagged behind her with a baseball cap pulled down over his own unruly curls.  Justin, Mrs. Harless called him, and when she told him to sit, he did.

It put JC more at ease when the pair was seated and JC was safely behind his desk, pencil in hand.   He could do this, he told himself.  He could.  He’d been trained for it and was fully qualified.  It couldn’t be that difficult; he just had to listen and then tell the kid to do what his mom said.  Still, he didn’t know what to say so they ended up sitting there until finally Mrs. Harless started talking. 

“I don’t know what to do with him,” she began, clearly working herself up for quite a ramble.  By the time she was finished explaining about Justin’s misplaced priorities and was starting on his lack of ambition, she was dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex and the kid was slumped down in his chair, savaging his bottom lip with white, even teeth. 

“Okay,” JC said suddenly, then blushed because he’d interrupted her and that was just rude, but she looked at him like he had all the answers in the world.  “Mrs. Harless, I think I should spend some time talking to Justin.  Alone?”  He tapped his pencil, trying to muster an expression of authority.  She’s going to know, he thought.  I have no clue what I’m doing.

“Anything you can do,” she said quickly.  She was already standing.  “He just doesn’t listen to me.  He probably won’t listen to you, either; just wants to run around with Trace-“

“-Mom!”  It was the first thing Justin had said, so JC scribbled “Trace” on his notepad while Lynn shushed Justin and told him to come straight home afterward.

When she was gone, JC slid the pencil between his teeth and ground his teeth into the wood, thinking carefully.  Justin peered curiously over at JC and shifted in his seat, probably waiting for the next lecture to begin. 

 

“So...why don’t you tell me about your mom,” JC said slowly, watching Justin’s expressive face.  When it reflected only derision, JC quickly said, “Or whatever.  Tell me about yourself.” 

It took a while, but Justin finally shrugged.  “I’m sixteen,” he said.  “I’m a junior at Creek High, and I don’t need any therapy.” 

JC nodded.  “Good, because I’m not a therapist,” he said dryly.  It came out dripping with disdain, and he bit his lip, tried again.  This time he tried to sound like his father, who was actually good with people.  “Your mom just thought you could use someone to talk to.” 

“So you can tell her everything I say.” 

“No.  Anything you say to me is confidential.” 

“Nothing I do is confidential,” Justin muttered, but when JC asked him to repeat himself, he just shrugged again and stared sullenly at the wall for the next few moments. 

“So, okay,” JC said, and coughed.  Justin looked up at JC as though he were the most tedious person he’d ever met.   “Your mom is worried about you.”

“She’s always worried.” 

“Does she have a reason?” 

“Can I go now?” 

JC followed Justin’s gaze to the window where he could see another teenaged boy loitering around the front walk.  When he turned back he caught the tail end of a smile that was obviously not meant for him to see. 

“Will you come back on Tuesday?” 

“Fine.”   Justin watched the window, leg twitching restlessly.  “Can I go?” 

JC let him go. 

***

“Business meetings are the last Sunday of every month after evening service.”  Joe Fatone, one of the senior deacons, patted JC’s shoulder and handed him a neatly typed schedule. 

“Oh.”  JC nodded helplessly.  He wasn’t the best with numbers.  Also, how boring.  He’d sort of thought that was the type of thing that would be handled by the church’s staff.  After all, he didn’t expect them to help him win souls; the least they could do was keep track of the books. 

“Don’t worry.  We’ll walk you through it,” he assured JC, and patted him again, jolting JC’s slight frame with each hefty tap.  “Bev will get you the minutes from the last meeting if you’d like to see them ahead of time.” 

JC nodded firmly this time, and maybe came off as too interested because when Bev showed up on his steep, rickety porch that evening with a folder of documents, she said, “Sorry this took so long; the copy machine was giving me fits.  I hate to ask Christopher to fix that damn thing one more time, but the longer we can keep it going, the better.” 

“Chris,” JC managed, and his face heated for no discernable reason.  He was so bad at this, but she’d taken him by surprise.  No one ever talked about Chris or even talked to Chris even though he gave freely of his time and talents.  It was like he didn’t exist. 

“Yes?”  Bev raised an eyebrow, not quite mocking, and just as JC realized exactly why she looked so familiar, she pursed her lips and gave him a hard look.  “Don’t you believe everything you hear, all right?” 

“Um, no, I haven’t.  I mean, no one tells me anything,” he finished with a nervous laugh, and it was true.  She peered at him for a few minutes before she pushed the folder into his hand and sighed. 

“Don’t look so sad, sweetie.”  Before he could react, he was wrapped up in soft arms that hold him in a brief, tight hug.  “Consider it an opportunity to make use of your head,” she whispered.  He could almost hear the unspoken “pretty little head,” and snorted into her shoulder.  It was obvious where Chris got his attitude. 

“You’re so young,” she said before leaving, and took in one last look.  “You’ll do fine.  You just keep delivering those powerhouse sermons, all right?”   

“Okay,” he said weakly, the folder heavy in his hand.  That he could do. 

***

JC did his best to heed her words.  He wanted so badly to deliver; he started spending more time writing than he had even in school.  Nights like those he didn’t even know what it was that propelled him forward other than a simple desire to succeed.  Another late night, and he rubbed his eyes and stood, pacing to shake off exhaustion.  One more cup of coffee should get him through writing the rest of this elusive sermon that he could feel, but not put into concrete terms.  The concept of truth was proving difficult to put into words.  Still, he felt led to try at the very least.  JC thought that Chris was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to hushed topics in this congregation. 

Chris hadn’t attended any of the services yet, but he wasn’t ever hard to find.  It felt less lonely when he could hear Chris rattling around downstairs, so JC left his windows open and fell asleep most nights to the rhythmic drone of Chris’ music.  Chris didn’t say much to JC, just watched with dark, contemplative eyes whenever he was around, but JC liked knowing someone was there, especially at times like tonight, when JC flushed the toilet and rusty water started rising from the sink more quickly than he could handle.  JC didn’t even have to make a phone call; about five minutes after water began trickling down into the floor vent, Chris showed up with a tool box and a bored expression. 

Thirty minutes later, Chris got to his feet on JC’s sodden-towel strewn floor and declared the whole thing a mess.  “I’ll have to come back tomorrow,” he explained.  JC just stared at the mess.  The stench of mildew was overpowering, but he was too tired to clean.  He was tired and lonely, and it was more important than he wanted to admit when he hesitated in the doorway and said, “Would you, uh, like some coffee?” 

JC held his breath, but Chris just laughed and wiped his wet hands on his jeans.  “It’s three AM, why wouldn’t we drink coffee?”

“Is it?”  JC was surprised even though his back and shoulders ached as though he’d been up for days.  “I didn’t- you probably want to get back to sleep?” 

“Nah, it’s cool.  I wasn’t asleep.  If I’d been asleep, I wouldn’t have seen all that water coming down through my ceiling.”   

JC busied himself with getting the coffee while Chris looked around, blatantly snooping.  Everything was pretty much a wreck, but he’d been working long hours and it wasn’t like he got a lot of company.   

“So, you all settled in now?” Chris asked.  Despite what he’d said, his voice sounded husky with sleep or fatigue.  Or maybe he’d been smoking.  Sometimes, JC caught the scent of cigarettes through the vents and it was always hardest to sleep those nights.  “Make any friends yet?” 

“Sure.”  JC handed Chris a cup of coffee. “The Fatones and the Basses are really great.  And-“

“-no, no,” Chris interrupted.  He flopped onto JC’s faded couch.  “Friends.  Someone your own age who you can complain to about those people you just mentioned.” 

JC shrugged and sank down onto the cushion next to Chris.  “Nobody like that, I guess.  But so far there’s nothing to complain about.” 

“Nothing?”  Chris was smirking again, blowing gently on his coffee with his eyes fixed on JC.    

“Well…” he said carefully, hardly daring to ask.  “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure.” 

He played with the edges of the afghan, his eyes on his fingers as they threaded through the tassels of yarn.  “Why is the church in so much debt?” 

There was absolutely no reason why Chris would have that kind of information, but something told JC that he did, and when he looked up at Chris’ incredulous expression, he knew for certain. 

“You’re just now asking this?” Chris asked.  “And you’re asking me?”

“They don’t like to talk about it.  It seems like it makes them uncomfortable,” he admitted, which was most of the reason he hadn’t pushed. 

“It probably does.”  Chris settled into the corner of the couch and it was the first time JC had seen him idle, still enough that JC shifted forward suddenly with the realization that he was finally able to look at Chris and see something beyond the dark, secret eyes that were always so full of warnings.  He liked what he saw; it made him feel like he wasn’t quite so alone there.  “What’d they tell you about the old preacher?”  Chris asked.

“Nothing.”  It’s true.  No one had said anything at all; they’d just plowed ahead so cheerfully that JC hadn’t bothered asking. 

“Nothing?”

“I swear,” JC promised. 

“Lou preached here for twenty years,” Chris said quietly.  Even though his tone had turned distant, JC thought that the story was a personal one.  He also thought that Chris would never admit as much.  His words came quickly, but his face was shuttered and every now and then he shook his head.  “Lou was an institution, man.  He was like...a father to everybody.  And then last year people started talking—they do that a lot around here, you know.  Don’t think you’ll ever have any secrets, because everyone knows.” 

JC nodded just to keep him talking. 

“So, some shit went down and it turned out he made some bad investments and tried to cover them up…all the church’s money- gone.  And he just disappeared and left them with all this debt.  It hurt a lot of people.”

Including Chris, JC sensed.  Chris may not have been a part of the church, but he was part of the community and JC was beginning to see how interwoven the two really were.  “That’s…” 

“Yeah,” Chris said.  His face was grim, and JC was almost sorry he brought it up, but not entirely.  As the leader of the church he needed to know those things; it could only help him better understand the people he was supposed to be helping.  Like Justin.  JC frowned.  It wasn’t the first time today he’d thought of Justin and how much he didn’t know what he was doing with the kid.

“So, wow.  For kids like Justin, Lou would’ve been…”  JC trailed off and shook his head; it was just so sad.  Lou had been around since they were born, and then gone just like that.  “No wonder he doesn’t trust me.” 

“Who, Justin?”  Chris asked.  “His mom making him talk to you?” 

“Well. Er-“  JC stammered.  He was definitely going to need to work on the privacy thing.  It was kind of embarrassing, but Chris just laughed. 

“I told you, there’s no such thing as secrets around here.  It just happens.” 

“Yeah…”  JC didn’t know what to say.  He shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have been up this late, and definitely shouldn’t have been gossiping with Chris, who he felt like he’d been stalking since he moved in.  Last time he’d seen Bev he’d tried to learn a little more, but she’d just laughed and told JC to go downstairs and ask for himself.  Something told JC that with Chris, it wasn’t quite so simple. 

***

When he got home the next day, Chris was underneath the bathroom sink, legs sprawled outward with one boot braced on the tile for support.  Justin was supposed to be coming by for a counseling session, so JC hoped this won’t take very long.  Then he saw the section of the wall Chris had torn out.

He leaned against the door frame and watched Chris’ hips rise off the floor as he twisted a stubborn piece of piping.  “I guess this means I’ll be seeing a lot of you,” JC said dryly. 

A muffled snort came from under the sink.  “A lot of this side of me, at least.  You’re not gonna be able to use your water for at least a week.  I’ll give you the keys to my place and you can just come and go when you need to until you’re hooked back up.” 

JC paused.  Chris seemed like the kind of person who valued his privacy.  He couldn’t be crazy about the idea of JC wandering in and out as he pleased.  “Are you sure?  I can probably see about getting a motel…”

Gripping the edge of the counter from below, Chris pulled himself out from under the sink and sat up.  “Nuh uh, man.  I know how much money you make, and trust me- you’re better off being inconvenienced for a week or so.” 

“It’s not- no, I just don’t want to inconvenience you,” JC explained.  Chris seemed sincere enough in his offer, so JC nodded, still skeptical, and said, “So, if you don’t mind…then okay.  Thank you.” 

“No problem.”  Chris winked and tapped his wrench on the tile floor, still watching JC.  “So, what’s up?  You’re just now getting home?” 

JC caught himself before he could sigh.  It had been a long day.  “Yeah.  But I’m not done yet.  Justin’s coming in a few minutes.” 

“You seeing him a lot?”  Chris put down his wrench.  It was awfully nice to have someone to talk to, so JC rolled his eyes and grimaced to show Chris exactly how he felt about his progress with Justin. 

“I am, but it’s less like counseling and more like me talking to the top of his hat.  I swear the only time he isn’t miserable is when it’s time to leave.”

“He’s a good kid.” 

“Yeah?  I just wish I could help him.” 

“What’s to help?  He’s a sixteen year old with a way overprotective mother.  All adults are out to run his life, no one understands, and now he’s got the preacher on his case.” 

It sounded so simple when Chris put it that way, and more than a little hopeless. 

He finished just in time; Justin rang the bell when he was tugging his faded t-shirt over his head and he hurried out to answer.  He’d hoped that Justin would respond to him better outside the church setting, but other than his odd admiration over Chris’ presence, everything was per usual.

“How are things at school?” 

“Fine.”

“What about your Sunday school class?  Do you like it?”   

“I guess.” 

“Good, good.”

“You look different,” Justin finally said, the first time he’d initiated any kind of conversation. 

“Different?”  JC looked down at his clothes: jeans, a t-shirt, and bare feet. 

“Yeah.  Like a normal person.” 

“I am a normal person,” JC smiled.  

“I guess.”  Justin stared for a couple more seconds, and then slumped back down into his seat.

“So…” JC looked thoughtfully at Justin, trying to find the magical topic that would make all his defenses fall away.  He knew that Justin loved music, wanted to please his mother, and that if he looked out the window right now he’d see Trace sitting on his steps wearing headphones and tennis shoes that were far dirtier than anything Justin would ever wear.  Those things might be the key to getting through to Justin, but JC didn’t know how to use them.  Every time he tried, the kid shut down even more. 

“Fuck!”  The sound of splintering wood accompanied the curse.  JC headed nervously for the bathroom, Justin on his heels.  When he got there, Chris was holding the cabinet door in one hand and a wrench in the other.  “Sorry,” he told them, scowling at the broken door in his hand.  “I’ll try to keep it down.  I just could really use a second set of hands in here.” 

Beside JC, Justin straightened, and JC watched them sizing one another up until Chris said, “Hey kid.  You want to help me with this?  I’ll pay you five bucks an hour for as long as it takes to get this place running again.” 

Justin hesitated.  “My mom says…” he began, then changed his mind.  “Okay,” he said slowly.  Chris probably didn’t even know what he’d done, but JC saw everything, and hope bloomed with the smile that twisted reluctantly across Justin’s face.

***

JC had a key to Chris’ place, but it seemed polite to knock, especially since Chris obviously had people over.  He shifted the towel and shampoo from one arm to another and when the door opened he was greeted by a stranger with hazy green eyes and a room full of marijuana smoke. 

“Hey,” the stranger said, and JC realized that he wasn’t a stranger after all; he was Diane Bass’ son, home from State University for the weekend.  

“Hi,” JC said slowly.  “Lance, right?”  He saw Joey Fatone behind Lance, sprawled on Chris’ leather couch. 

“Yeah.  Good to see you again, preacher,” Lance said smoothly, and motioned him in with a wide gesture.  The whole thing tilted JC’s balance and he paused because this was a little out of his comfort zone. 

“JC!” Chris said warmly, his features softer, more open than usual.  He wore a pair of faded camouflage pants with a black t-shirt and no shoes, and  JC couldn’t stop looking at him.  “C’mon in.  You know Lance and Joey, right?” 

Joey had just been in JC’s office yesterday, dragged there for premarital counseling by his fiancée, Kelly.  He was an easygoing guy about JC’s age who taught chorus at the high school.  JC liked him- he liked all the Fatones- but hadn’t known he was a friend of Chris’.  Then again, how could he know when no one ever talked about Chris?  Joey waved at JC from the couch and then gave up on trying to hide the joint in his hand. 

“I don’t suppose you want a smoke?” Chris laughed, and Lance joined him with a low, dark chuckle.  It felt a lot high school, which JC hadn’t particularly loved the first time around.  He clutched his towel to his chest, frowning his refusal even though it was tempting, so tempting.  He hadn’t smoked up in months; not since the church called him out for his first interview.  He had a reputation now that meant everything.  “Suit yourself,” Chris said lightly.  His shrug seemed like a dismissal, and JC stood uneasily in the middle of the room for a second, trying to find the right thing to say. 

Lance settled next to Joey on the couch and took the joint from him, inhaling with half-lidded eyes.  “So, I hear you’re doing a good job,” he said after a few seconds, the words emerging in a cloud of smoke.  JC shrugged, too aware of Chris still standing at his side. 

“Yeah, he’s hot stuff in the pulpit,” Chris broke in.  The glow of approval was still just an ember in JC’s chest when Chris stomped it out by adding, “It’s the one-on-one stuff he’s got trouble with.” 

“I…Chris,” JC stammered. 

“Is that right?” Lance drawled, one finely-shaped eyebrow raised in interest.

“Oh, yeah.  You should see him; every conversation is like a bad first date.” 

If it wasn’t so true, JC would protest.  But Chris had just fairly and correctly assessed JC’s balance of strengths and weaknesses as they stood, and even though it made JC’s cheeks burn with indignation, this was Chris’ home.  He excused himself to the bathroom and took the quickest shower he could manage before slinking back to his own empty apartment. 

This was nothing new.  He’d always been this way, which was why he’d jumped on it when he realized his talent for public speaking.  God was his passion, and when he’d combined the two--performing and sharing his passion with others--the ministry had seemed like the natural choice.  Up behind the pulpit he felt connected to every single person in the room.  He didn’t even feel the need to stay behind the pulpit; most Sundays he tucked his Bible underneath his arm and paced the width of the sanctuary, making eye contact with each individual.  Making a difference. 

But Chris was right.  It was like there was an ‘on’ and ‘off’ switch on his confidence that he hadn’t really had to confront until now.  In school, everyone had been so dazzled by his writing and performing of sermons that JC hadn’t given a second thought as to whether or not he could fulfill all the duties that were expected of him. 

JC curled up on his couch and covered himself with a blanket.  It was too quiet, even downstairs, but when he turned on the loud, meaningless noise of the television he didn’t fall asleep for a long time.    

***

Chris showed up around noon the next day when JC was in the back, plucking idly at his guitar.  The door was always open, so he ignored the knocking until Chris gave up and let himself in. 

“Hey,” Chris said.  He stood there for a few minutes before he gestured at the guitar.  “What’s that you’re playing?  I like your sound, especially that one from a couple days ago, the slow one with the ba-dum ba-dum badum part…”   He sang a few notes and trailed off.

JC stilled his hand on the strings and pulled the guitar to his chest.  “Just something I wrote,” he murmured.  He hadn’t meant for Chris to hear, but it stood to reason that if he could hear Chris from downstairs, Chris could hear him.  He decided to keep his mouth shut and wait for the inevitable apology.  When he raised his eyes up to Chris for the first time, he saw that Chris was ready to work in tattered jeans and a black bandanna tied over his hair.  The edges of his hair stuck out from underneath, longer than JC kept his own hair, and he knew that if he were standing close enough he’d be able to smell weed and shampoo, maybe a hint of that thick coconut lotion Chris was always putting on his hands.  He wanted to stand that close, and hated himself for wanting it.  No wonder Tony still wouldn’t return his calls- he was hopeless. 

“Listen, about last night,” Chris hedged, and JC nodded encouragingly, to make things easier. “If you could not mention to Diane that Lance was at my place.  Lance tries to act like a badass, but he’s really just a big mama’s boy and she wouldn’t be very happy about it.” 

Disappointment hit hard, and JC ducked his head, unwilling to let Chris see. “That’s why you’re here?  To ask me not to tell on Lance?”   

“Well, I’m not the Avon lady.  What did you think I was gonna say?” 

“Nothing,” JC said tightly, but Chris had asked an honest question so he was going to get an honest answer.  “I thought you wanted to apologize,” JC muttered so quietly that Chris almost didn’t hear him.

“Apologize for what?” 

“Nothing, I guess.  Okay?  Just, can you please go now?” 

“JC, please,” Chris sighed.  “Tell me what’s wrong.”  He was probably just being polite now, but JC didn’t care.

“I thought we were friends, that’s what’s wrong.  I thought…and then you, the stuff you said.  Joey and Lance are part of my church, Chris.  That was so embarrassing; I don’t want them to know- what you said, it was personal.  Private,” he finished, all too aware of the hot blush on his cheeks. 

“JC,” Chris began, and moved his hands to hang in loose fists at his side.  He flexed and unflexed them; nervous, JC thought.  “JC,” he repeated.  “I mean, you think we’re…friends?  You don’t even know anything about me.” 

JC made a face and put his guitar down.  “I know things about you,” he insisted, tired but stubborn.  “I know that you’re a writer.  You still give money to the church every month even though you aren’t a member.  You like Gang of Four at night, but when you stay out all night you listen to folk music until I- um, until you fall asleep.  I know you’re good with kids, your mom adores you…and you don’t have a clue how to fix that mess you’ve made in my bathroom.”  The last remark was met with a faint smile, but mostly Chris just looked surprised.  “So, you can go now,” JC added.  “I don’t want you to have that uncomfortable bad first date feeling.”

The worst thing was how Chris had just proved correct everything he’d said last night.  Obviously JC didn’t know anything about people, not if he couldn’t even tell who liked him and who didn’t. 

“Look, I didn’t mean…” 

“Just stop.”  JC closed his eyes and wished he’d never started this conversation.  It didn’t matter, anyhow.  Chris was just a secretive punk from downstairs; a maintenance man at best.  “I also know you don’t lie.  I like that about you, that you don’t care what people think, so don’t start now.”

Chris stepped forward with determination and blocked JC’s path, making it impossible for JC to dismiss him.  “Okay.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”   For a second, JC thought he might kneel and beg forgiveness, typical Chris theatrics, but Chris just looked at him for a long while, dark eyes fixed on JC’s face until JC looked away, his insides all twisted and confused. 

“I have to go visit Miss Sylvie in the hospital,” JC muttered eventually, and rose to brush past Chris.  “Lock up on your way out.” 

***

He was running late as usual, and when he got home Trace was already sitting on the stairs with his ratty backpack, bopping along to something on Justin’s discman.  The sky was gray and freezing, but Trace just smiled and scooted over to let JC pass.  JC stopped at the top of the stairs.  “Hey, come on inside,” he said.  Trace turned and pulled the headphones down around his neck, his expression a mixture of gratitude and suspicion.  “It’s cold,” JC coaxed.  “I’ve got coffee, and you can sit in the kitchen until Justin’s done.” 

Trace shrugged and got his stuff together with red, chapped hands.  He even muttered a low, “Thanks,” when JC held the door open for him, which JC counted as a small victory.  Trace had proven harder to crack than even Justin, and he’d almost given up on trying. 

After putting the coffee on to brew, JC headed toward the back of the apartment.  When he stopped to hang his coat, he heard Chris’ voice, light and intense all at once, talking to Justin. 

“…pick your battles, man.  Your mom sees you fighting everything she wants, she thinks you’re headed straight for a life of crime.  Is it really worth it?” 

“So what should I do?” 

JC held his breath, waiting for Chris’ reply. 

“It’s up to you.  But, how about listening to J--to the pastor for a change.  If you talk to your mom about it afterwards, she’ll know you’re making an effort.” 

“Maybe…” 

“Or, Fatone told me your school musical is coming up.  He needs kids with your talent, Justin.  Just because you think you’re headed for the big time doesn’t mean you don’t need all the practice you can get.  Your mom would go fucking crazy if you joined up with that extracurricular shit.” 

JC frowned at Chris’ word choice, but a part of him was grateful, so grateful and impressed with the way Chris was talking to Justin.  Chris was able to talk to Justin at his own level, completely unselfconscious and comfortable in a way that JC just wasn’t.  

JC shut the closet doors, making sure to make a lot of noise, then peeked his head in the bathroom.  “Hi,” he said, feeling suddenly shy.  He’d been hard on Chris, who had never done anything except be his own true self. 

Justin immediately clammed up.  He was crouched under the sink, wearing a bandanna tied on his head exactly like Chris’.  JC smiled over him at Chris, who rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation.  Several pieces of brand new pipe were lying around on the floor.  It looked like they were finally making progress. 

“Go ahead, Justin.”  Chris sat down on the edge of the bathtub and wiped his forehead.  “I’m about done for today.  Thanks a lot, man.” 

Justin was shut tightly back down by the time he and JC settled into the living room for their session.  JC could hear Chris finishing up in the bathroom.  It took all his energy to focus on Justin and not what Chris was doing.  Chris was probably just leaving, anyhow.  It wasn’t like he had any reason to stay.  JC rubbed his eyes and forced his attention back to Justin. 

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” he asked.  He knew Justin was going to say no, and sure enough, the kid was already shaking his head.  

“Okay,” he sighed.  “Are you getting along with your mom?”  They were the same questions he asked every time, but he didn’t know any other ones to ask. 

“I guess.  Not really.” 

“What is it you fight about the most?” 

Justin glanced up at JC, and for a second he seemed more nervous than belligerent.  “I don’t know.” 

“She mentioned Trace before, in my office.  Does she think you spend too much time together?” 

“She just doesn’t like him, that’s all.” 

“How long have you been friends?” 

“Since grade school.”

JC paused.  There were no words to describe keeping the same best friend for so long except impressive, enviable, and, well…sweet.  It was sweet.  Mrs. Harless was always dropping hints suggesting that JC work on Trace’s continuous presence, but every time JC watched them leave together, he couldn’t think of any reasons why he would want to do that.  “That’s cool,” he said slowly.  “Parents don’t always like their kids’ friends.  Maybe if you talked to her about why-” 

“She doesn’t like his mom,” Justin interrupted.  “She won’t change her mind, and neither will I.”  His mouth stayed open for a second, and JC thought he might say more.  He obviously wanted to say more, but the moment passed and Justin slumped back into the couch cushions, miles away once again. 

Hs method was not working.  JC had heard that you couldn’t counsel someone who didn’t want to be counseled, so he abandoned the scenarios he’d painted out in his own head, grand plans of helping the kid come to some kind of higher self-awareness.  It was all bullshit, anyhow.  He stood up and slapped his hands on his thighs.  “Okay, then,” he said.  “If neither of you will change your minds, there’s no point in talking about it.  Trace is in the kitchen.  You want to go in and have some coffee?” 

Chris didn’t emerge from the bathroom until Justin was in the kitchen, chattering with Trace.  “Good call,” he told JC, and exited through the kitchen. 

JC stood in the living room for a moment longer, wondering once again why he was there.

***

“How’d you know I was a writer?” 

JC had intentionally put off taking a shower until Chris had left for what he thought was the rest of the evening, but Chris was sitting on the couch and waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom. 

“I…”  He tugged at the drawstring on his pajama pants and blotted at his wet hair with a towel.  “I just saw your desk.  Your stuff.  Books and…” he gestured at Chris’ computer desk, littered with stacks of papers, magazines and books.  “Plus,” he added, hoping it would be enough, “We kind of keep the same hours.” 

“Uh huh.”  Chris’ stare wasn’t exactly accusing, but interested.  More interested than JC had ever seen him, and the attention sent discomfort prickling all over his skin.  “What about the other stuff?” 

“I don’t know, Chris.  I just pay attention.”  It was his job, after all, and if he paid a little more attention to Chris than some of his congregation, it was only natural.  They were neighbors, after all. 

Chris nodded.  “Look, I already apologized, but I was wrong to say some of those things.”  He looked expectantly at JC, who wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. 

“Well,” he said, and glanced around.  A wisp of smoke drifted from a stick of incense, and JC followed it with his eyes; anything to avoid looking at Chris.  “It’s okay.  I was being…presumptuous, or something, to think…anything, really.” 

“No.”  From the corner of his eye, JC could see Chris shaking his head and rubbing at his chin, which was shaded with dark stubble.  “You were right.  I don’t know anything about you other than what my mom and sisters have told me and believe me, you don’t wanna hear that.” 

He didn’t?  JC tried to think of all the interaction he’d had with Bev and her rambunctious, dark-haired daughters.  They’d always seemed to like him well enough.  “I don’t?” he said nervously.  The door was just a few feet away and he moved toward it.  “What did they say?  Did I, um.  Do something?” 

Chris snorted.  “Yeah, you showed up with your dreamy blue eyes.  I swear, at least two of my sisters think they’re going to marry you.” 

JC laughed nervously.  It was true.  Wednesday nights were always a headache when the youth group gathered in the fellowship hall.  There was always a giggling group of girls crowding into his office, the room thick with perfume and raging hormones.  He tried to remind himself that he loved all of them--as God’s children, of course--but that was hard to do when they were so openly ogling him.  Girls had always reacted to him in this way; he didn’t know why he’d thought that would change just because of his new position.  “Oh,” he said softly, not knowing how to answer.  

“Fox Creek’s most eligible bachelor,” Chris chuckled.  “It’s gonna be ugly when you finally pick someone.  You have some time?”  He gestured at a brown suede recliner and JC slowly realized what Chris was asking. 

“You don’t have to,” he said cautiously, “because of last night.”  

“No, hey, I want to.  It’s only fair,” Chris added, and JC allowed himself a tiny smile before folding himself into the recliner.

“Well, since you put it that way.  There’s not much to tell.  Like I said, I came here straight from school.  I like music…the guitar, singing, writing songs.  That’s it.” 

“That’s it?  What about your family?” 

JC smiled at Chris, a little sadly.  “Not much to tell.  They’re nothing like your family.” 

“Okay.”  Chris didn’t push.  “So why this?  Why not music?” 

JC drummed his fingers on his knee.  It felt like an interrogation, but knowing the church’s history with Lou, JC didn’t really blame him.  He thought about how to put Chris’ mind at ease.

“Because God,” he began.  “When I share it—when I share Him--with others, it’s like my music, you know?  Just, really beautiful and rewarding.”  He realized he was flapping his hands around and stopped abruptly, tucked them self-consciously under his legs.  Chris didn’t need a sermon.  “It’s- I’m good at it.” 

It was impossible to decipher Chris’ reaction.  He just nodded and sipped on his beer, openly staring at JC.  “You sure you’re in the right profession?” he asked. 

“What?  Yes!”  That was probably why people avoided Chris, and JC scowled at him, biting down on a thousand cruel retorts. 

“Ouch.  Does the church know about your quick temper?” 

“I don’t have a quick temper.  It’s just, you.  You’re the only one...” 

“Yeah?  Then, I guess we really are friends, now.”  Chris’ grin was quick and sharp, and JC had to look away before he responded to it with anything more than a disdainful shake of his head.  “C’mon.  I’m just fucking with you now.” 

“It feels like more than just fucking,” JC muttered, then cringed at his own words.  When he giggled, Chris laughed along with him.

“What’s more than fucking?” he snorted.  “Besides, a nice Christian boy like you wouldn’t know what that’s like.” 

JC smiled.  “Nobody believes in saving it for marriage anymore,” he said, half-joking.  He would elaborate only if Chris asked, but of course Chris, who revealed nothing of himself, wanted to know everything about JC. 

“Seriously?” Chris said, his beer paused halfway to his lips.  “You?” 

“Mmm hmm,” JC admitted, and flushed with embarrassed pleasure when Chris raised his beer up in a toast.  It wasn’t as admirable as everyone thought it was; JC had always just been too into his music, into his writing, into too many things that had nothing to do with girls.  It wasn’t really a matter of resisting temptation so much as a lot of disinterest on his part. 

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Chris said slowly.  “Don’t you get kind of…” 

JC shrugged.  He woke up most nights plagued with a desperate ache; a needy sense of wanting that only seemed partially about sex.  Those nights, he breathed deeply and listened for the sounds of Chris moving around downstairs, but sometimes it was the sounds from downstairs that made him feel that way in the first place.  “Not really.”  He lied because he didn’t understand it, so how could Chris possibly understand? 

“That’s cool,” Chris said thoughtfully.  “You’re pretty cool, JC.  And the music, I like having it around.” 

Me too, JC thought.  He was trying to think of a way to return the compliment when Chris shattered the opportunity by launching into a story about a laundromat, a bag of weed and a nun that couldn’t have possibly been true but had JC laughing until his stomach ached. 

***

JC looked at his schedule and cringed.  Counseling with Mr. and Mrs. Hughes.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, it was just…they had so many problems.  Their financial problems were immediate, but the church only had so much to give, and Mr. Hughes had anger issues, which meant he was sometimes a little mean to his wife, whom JC sometimes secretly thought deserved it.  It was the most awkward when they brought up their sexual problems because he didn’t need those mental images.  He supposed that everyone was attractive to somebody, but the idea of the two of them…doing things…it was all he could do to stay in his seat. 

He held his breath at the rap on the door, but it was just Diane Bass with a tall styrofoam cup from the local coffee shop. 

“Lance came by and brought these for us,” she said.  She shook her head fondly and placed the cup on the corner of JC’s desk.  “I’m afraid he’s something of a snob.  He seems to think the coffee we’re drinking here is substandard.”  She rolled her eyes at JC, who nodded his agreement while blessing Lance in his heart because a nice flavored cappuccino was really the only chance of making his afternoon bearable.  “Do you have time for Joe before your appointment?” she asked as she was leaving. 

JC sipped at his cappuccino and then licked at the edges when he found it too hot.  “Mm hmm.”  He was always up for a visit with Joe Fatone Sr., whose duties seemed to include giving pep talks and generally being in a cheerful mood.  Today was no exception, and he settled into the couch in the corner of JC’s office.  Other than Joe, Trace was pretty much the only one who used the couch; for napping or doing homework during Justin’s appointments.    

“How’s it going, young man?” 

“Good.” 

“We thought you might want to take a couple days off before revival next week.  Five nights of sermons, that’s probably put you a little behind.”

JC shrugged.  “Not really.  I finished writing them last week.”  Joe’s stunned expression was immensely satisfying, and JC inhaled the sweet scent of mocha, sat back and felt like a king.  He’d gone three days without sleep, caught in a burst of inspired extrapolation on the teachings of Luke that he just knew was meant for the hearts of this congregation.  By the time he’d finished he had enough for the entire revival, and they were all similarly themed masterpieces.  He almost wished he were back in school and turning them in for grades; they were that brilliant. 

Joe’s laughter jolted JC back to reality.  “That’s the expression most people wear right before they’re taken down a notch,” Joe said, shaking his head.  “I’ve seen it enough on my sons, believe me.” 

“Oh.  I- right.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’m not anxious to hear the words you’ve prepared for us.” 

“Thank you.  And, Joey’s got some great music planned,” JC offered.  “I approved the selections last night; we’re really gonna raise the roof.” 

“That’s the plan.”  Joe smiled widely, and JC knew that if they were on the same side of the desk he’d be crushed in a hug right now. 

“Do you think.  I mean…” JC sipped at his cappuccino and played it cool.  “I know Chris doesn’t go to the services, but does he ever come to these things?  The revivals?  Or…” he trailed off and focused all his attention on reading Joe’s face. 

Joe rubbed his palms on his stocky legs and furrowed his brow.  “That’s a tough one, son.  There are a great many people who’d love to see Chris in the pew again, but just as many who would just as soon run him out.  They’d do it, too, if they wouldn’t have to face the wrath of that mother of his.”  Joe threw his head back and laughed in a way that JC was certain meant he was picturing something outrageous Bev had done in the past. 

“But, why would they-“  JC snapped his mouth shut when Diane poked her head in the door again.  “The Hughes?” he asked weakly.

“That’s right, sweetie.  Should I tell them to wait?” 

“I was just on my way out, Diane.”  Joe clambered to his feet and rapped his knuckles on JC’s desk on the way out.  “You take care,” he said, and with a brief greeting to the Hughes, he was gone. 

“Thank God we had a session today,” Tina Hughes said as soon as she was seated in the folding chair on the other side of JC’s desk.  “You won’t believe what he’s done now.” 

JC felt something inside him clench up, tight and uncomfortable.  It eased a bit when he wrapped his hand around the radiant heat of the styrofoam cup, but didn’t entirely disappear until he climbed the worn, peeling stairs of his apartment that evening. 

***

“Emily, get in here and set the table!” Bev hollered down the hall.  When she came back into the kitchen, she set a big glass of iced tea down in front of JC and went about her business.  JC received a lot of dinner invitations, but if Bev’s personality was warm, her home was even warmer and those evenings were his favorite, especially since Chris sometimes joined them. 

“She’s got more attitude every time I see her,” Chris complained of his sister.  JC thought all the girls seemed really nice.  A bit too attentive at times, but other than that he thought Chris was really lucky. 

“She’s seventeen,” Bev said as though it explained it all.  She’d probably be really good at counseling, he thought, proven by the way she didn’t even bat an eye when Emily entered the room wearing enough perfume and makeup for an entire brothel of whores. 

“What the hell is on your face?” Chris laughed in disbelief.  JC covered his mouth with his hand because his class on dealing with adolescent behavior had taught him that the slightest thing could damage a girl’s self-esteem irreparably.  Apparently he needed more field experience, though, because Emily punched Chris’ arm with an impressive amount of strength and flounced across the room to the refrigerator, making sure to tilt her ass in JC’s direction when she looked inside.

“Oh my God.  Mom, make her stop that!” Chris shouted.  JC’s face flooded with warmth, far more embarrassed than Chris could possibly be, and terrified to look up from the table. 

“Emily, you are excused.  Put on a skirt that covers everything that ought to be covered, get your sisters, and come sit down.  Chris, finish setting the table.”  Bev slapped her own forehead with an oven mitt and gave a dramatic sigh.  Another thing JC liked about Bev’s house was that unlike the dinners he attended with other families from the church, it was a shared spotlight and Chris was the only one capable of keeping up with the girls, story for story and insult for insult.  It gave JC the chance to just sit and breathe…and to watch Chris, who had the sweetest habit of shooting JC a prideful glance every time one of the girls said something particularly amusing. 

“JC, watch this,” Taylor said, and Bev clucked in disapproval. 

“Pastor Chasez,” she corrected, “is an adult.  Be respectful.”

“But Chris calls him JC.” Emily pointed out.  

“Because he’s my friend, dumbass.”  Chris rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, and Chris doesn’t even go to church,” Taylor added, and then without missing a beat, “Pastor Chasez, don’t you care that Chris doesn’t go to church?”

Chris stiffened in his seat, but still came out with a teasing, “Yeah C, don’t you care that you don’t get to look at my bright shining face every Sunday morning?” 

“Of course he doesn’t care,” Kate cut in.  “He’s always letting Trace Ayala hang around and he doesn’t go, either.” 

“Blech!”  Emily made a face and threw down her napkin.  “Trace is such a loser.  Pastor Chasez,” she made a point of saying, and shot Bev a longsuffering look.  “Seriously.  Gross.” 

“No, wait.”  Normally JC just sat back and let the chaos happen around him, but Trace was far from a loser.  “Trace is a cool kid.” 

“He doesn’t talk to anybody except Justin,” Emily continued.  “Justin, on the other hand, is popular.  He’s-“

“-You mean nobody will talk to him except for Justin,” Kate said.  “I remember when I was in school, and-“

“-I was talking!”

“Only because you interrupted me!” 

“Five minutes,” Bev said loudly, and the entire table fell quiet.  The next five minutes were to pass in silence, and JC followed Chris’ lead by eating as quickly as possible so that they were pushing away from the table right as they reached the last thirty seconds. 

“You lucked out,” Bev said dryly, and offered her cheek for a kiss from both boys as they fled the kitchen. 

***

JC tugged his scarf more tightly around his neck and leaned over the edge of his porch.  Justin and Trace were hooting with wild laughter, so much that JC had to yell to be heard over their racket when he called down to them.  

“Did you guys put that wreath on Chris’ door yet?”  One of the older ladies at church, Miss Lucy, had come by that afternoon with homemade pine wreaths and insisted that JC take one for both himself and for Chris.  The boys ignored JC and chased each other around the yard, giggling and shoving at one another until they grew tired and collapsed on the stairs. 

“Chris has his nipples pierced,” Justin reported as soon as he could breathe again, and at JC’s sharp look he hurried out with, “We saw!  When we were putting up his wreath, we woke him up and-“

“-like a stripper or something,” Trace agreed with enthusiasm. 

JC just held onto the railing, completely aghast.  Pierced?  It would make sense; after all, Chris’ ears were full of studs and gold hoops, but to put a needle through that tender area…JC took a deep breath, his stomach fluttering nervously.   “What do you know about strippers?” he muttered. 

Justin laughed at Trace, who just shrugged.  “I know I wouldn’t pay to see one who looks like Chris.”  They went off on another bout of laughter and JC stepped inside the apartment, stood with his back against the wall until his head stopped spinning. 

Miss Lucy brought by enough food to feed an army and JC heated it for dinner, spread it on the counter and invited Chris the way he always did when the church ladies gave him too much food.  “Miss Lucy says she used to change your diapers when you were a baby,” JC said from his seat at the table.  He watched Chris pour gravy onto his mashed potatoes, watched for any reaction at all, but Chris just shrugged and sat across from JC. 

“She seemed disappointed you weren’t around,” JC tried again. 

“Yeah.  She’s a cool old lady.  I’ll catch her next time.” 

JC nodded.  If he wanted to know more about Chris, he obviously needed to ask outright, but it was easier said than done.  Chris was unpredictable, and sometimes he said things JC didn’t want to hear.  JC decided to let it go for now.  He’s distracted, anyhow, by the way he can make out the faint outline of…something…right about where Chris’ nipples were at.  Heat unfolded in his stomach, slow and heavy, and he shut his eyes.  It had been a long time since he’d felt this way, but a fear of needles was nothing to be ashamed of.  If his hand trembled when he held it against his belly, it was only because he was picturing bright syringes and the way they slid butter-smooth into his flesh. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” JC said weakly, and opened his eyes.  The feeling had mostly passed, so long as he kept his eyes on his plate.  “Just saying grace.”

“Tell God I said hi,” Chris smirked.  “Ask him how he’s coming along on that World Peace thing.” 

“Whatever.  Ask him yourself.”  JC rolled his eyes.  “The high school musical is coming up in a couple weeks.  I heard Justin’s putting them all to shame.” 

Chris snorted and took a large bite of meatloaf.  “Yeah?  Lemme guess who told you that; Trace?” 

“Of course.”  They grinned at one another across the table for a second, because Trace was Justin’s biggest fan and Justin never got tired of hearing about his own greatness.  “But Joey said the same thing.  It’s getting to where I don’t know what to tell his mom anymore.  It seems like he knows exactly what he wants to do with his life.  I think she’s making a mistake by trying to force him in another direction.” 

“Good for him.”  Chris nodded, satisfied.  “How about you?  You figured out what you want to be when you grow up?” 

“Why do you keep saying that?  What do you think I should be doing with my life?” 

“I dunno.  You’ve got the charisma thing onstage.  There’s no doubt you inspire people.  But there’s a lot more involved with being a pastor of a church.”

“I know.” 

“I mean, okay.  Let’s say Miss Vicki comes to you, she’s got five kids at home and her husband walked out on her.  What would you do?  She’s part of your congregation, you’re responsible for her.” 

“I-“  JC thought about it for a long time.  Chris was taking this all so personally; too personally.  Yes, he realized.  This was personal for Chris.  “I don’t know,” he snapped.   “What did Lou do?” 

“He took care of things,” Chris said simply. 

“Maybe at one point he did.  No offense, but he sounds like a real ass.” 

“See?  Tell me you’re a man of God.” 

“I’m not talking to you as your pastor, Chris.  I’m talking to you as a friend.” 

Chris shifted in his seat and took a sip of his water, completely unfazed.  It was infuriating, especially when he said, “I heard you and Justin giggling about Brother Matthews’ mustache.  And last week you said that Miss Sylvie smells like cabbage.” 

“So?” 

“So…it’s just you, who you are.  You like to gossip, you don’t like babies…you can’t even stand it when people hug you!  I’ve seen you, every week you cringe your way through the receiving line