More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,71

service seems to focus on a message and music, and afterward, junk food.

Meg walks to the mic, sans wings. Her rainbow-striped hair is tucked behind her ears, and she perches on a small stool, folds her hands in her lap, resting on her white denim skirt. She doesn’t play an instrument. Her voice is enough. While Meg is on the small side, her range is ginormous.

Her eyes find me, and she gives a light wave. Ben is highlighted in the blue light upstage, holding his violin. This evening, Ben and his violin are wearing their serious faces. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him since the latest Marcus incident, and now I wish I had taken the opportunity to clear the air so he wasn’t looking at me in that pitiful way.

I’m fine, I want to say. Whatever you’re thinking about me, don’t. I don’t want it.

It’s a lie, but I still wish I’d done it.

“We’re trying out a new song tonight,” Meg says. “Jesus laid it on my heart, and I haven’t been able to shake it since. I think it must be meant especially for one of you. It’s called ‘Rescue,’ and I’d love it if you’d follow along on the screens behind me.” That’s the thing about Meg. She talks about Jesus like he’s her broski. Like he’s been texting her brain all week with his playlist. Like he’s her Luke, actually.

I never know how to take it. It’s this club she and my mom are in, where they have meetups with Jesus, and I get the feeling they are talking about me. It’s unnerving and, frankly, embarrassing.

This feels like a setup. Does God do setups? Objectively, he built the world, so he’s probably cool with premeditation.

Damn it, Meg.

* * *

The following night, I’ve exchanged the darkened theater— where I’m pretty sure I left my pride in a puddle on the sticky floor alongside the discarded popcorn kernels—for the mall.

The contrast is just as jarring and surreal as one would imagine.

After my sort-of come to Jesus, I talked to Meg, trying unsuccessfully to unpack all that had happened. Mostly what it comes down to is—I don’t love the whole “God wants to be your father” thing. Probably because father is synonymous with selfish asshole to me, and the only thing my “father” has ever inspired in me is distrust and loneliness and rejection.

It’s more than a single night of pretty singing can cure.

But I’m willing to try. Or at least try to try. Feel what I’m feeling. Search what I’m searching. Keep an open mind or whatever. Which Meg is over the moon about.

Then I told her about asking Luke to be my wedding date, and she insisted on coming shopping with me, because according to her, asking a boy to be your wedding date is like Big League Chew big. And since we were already headed to the mall, my mom tagged along so she could find herself a dress. We found the prettiest ivory lace cocktail dress that is going to knock Phil on his butt when he sees her. Mom ran it to the car, promising to meet Meg and me in Macy’s after she called her fiancé.

“So, how does it feel to know, definitively, your mom and boss are borking?” Meg asks in a hushed voice after double-checking my mom isn’t anywhere near us. “I mean, we knew, but now we know know about the borking.”

I shoot my best friend a look across the rack of dresses. “Meg.”

“Probably while you’re at work,” she continues casually, holding out a fire-engine red minidress and replacing it just as fast, all the while wrinkling her nose. “Nice of you to cover those closing shifts,” she says.

I make a face. “Stop it.”

“Oh, come on. You must have thought about it.”

I flick through more gowns, each floating up in a cloud of pastel tulle. “Honestly, I haven’t. As far as I know, she hasn’t dated anyone since my dad left when I was ten, except for Phil. That’s a long time to be alone. So, if there’s borking”—I wince at the mental picture—“good for them. In fact, if they aren’t, Phil needs to work on his romantic-stylze. But they must be because I’ve never seen my mom so glow-y”—I stifle a shudder—“and if that’s Phil’s doing, well, great. Furthermore, using terms like borking isn’t doing you any favors if you’re hoping to dispel any of those homeschooler clichés.”

Meg raises a brow and bounces on her toes,