Faithful Horizons

Chapter 20: A Moment of Closeness

The clouds hung low over the horizon, their dark edges threatening the world with rain as Ethan pulled into the paved driveway in front of Grace's house. He'd come here reluctantly after her text - "Come over? I have something for you."

He hadn't planned on seeing her today. After the confrontation with Josh, he'd felt raw, uncertain if he should face Grace again so soon. But when her message came through, curiosity had gotten the better of him.

As he stepped out of the car, the first raindrops began to fall, cool and sharp against his skin. Grace appeared in the doorway a moment later, waving him inside with a warm smile.

"You're just in time," she said, holding the door open as he walked in.

"For what?" Ethan asked, brushing droplets off his jacket.

She grinned, motioning for him to follow her into the living room. "You'll see."

The scent of something sweet hit him as they entered the room, where a plate of cookies sat on the coffee table beside two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. A blanket was draped over the couch, and the soft glow of string lights cast a cozy warmth over the space.

Ethan raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "What's all this?"

Grace shrugged, sitting down and pulling her legs up beneath her. "Just thought you could use a break. After everything yesterday, I figured you might want to decompress."

Ethan hesitated before sitting down across from her. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I wanted to," Grace said simply, her gaze steady.

Ethan picked up one of the mugs, the warmth seeping into his hands. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet hum of the rain outside filling the space between them.

"How's your mom?" Grace asked softly.

Ethan took a sip of hot chocolate before answering. "Stable. For now." He set the mug down, leaning back against the couch. "They're still pushing for long-term care, but she's refusing. Says she's not ready to give up her independence."

Grace nodded, her expression considerate. "That must be hard - for both of you."

Ethan shrugged, though his chest tightened at the thought. "It's nothing new. She's been like this for years - pushing through, pretending she's fine when she's not."

Grace tilted her head, her gaze searching his face. "And you? How are you doing?"

Ethan let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "I don't know, Grace. Some days it feels like I'm just... existing. Like I'm stuck in this endless cycle of trying to keep everything from falling apart."

Her expression softened, and she reached across the table, her fingers brushing lightly against his hand. "You're not alone, Ethan. I know it feels like that sometimes, but you're not."

Her touch was gentle but grounding, and for a moment, Ethan didn't pull away.

After a while, Grace stood, pulling a box from a nearby shelf. She sat back down and handed it to him with a sheepish smile.

"What's this?" Ethan asked, turning the box over in his hands.

"Just something I thought you might like," she said, her cheeks flushing faintly. "Go on - open it."

Ethan lifted the lid, his breath catching just slightly as he pulled out a sleek, leather-bound sketchpad. His fingers traced the embossed edges, the pages crisp and smooth beneath his touch.

"Grace," he said, his voice low. "This is... I don't know what to say."

She smiled, her eyes bright. "You don't have to say anything. I just thought maybe it could help. You're always drawing, and I figured you deserve something nicer than that beat-up notebook you've been using."

Ethan chuckled softly, though his throat felt tight. "This is way too nice for me. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Grace said firmly. "You're good, Ethan. Really good. And I want you to have something that reminds you of that."

Ethan stared at the sketchpad for a long moment, his chest constricting with a mix of emotions he didn't know how to name.

"Thank you," he said finally, his voice quieter now.

Grace leaned back against the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. "You're welcome."

The rain outside turned into a steady downpour, the rhythm soft and soothing against the windows. They talked for a while, their conversation shifting between light banter and deeper reflections. Grace told him about her favorite books growing up, her dreams of traveling someday, and the way her faith had helped her through her own struggles.

Ethan found himself opening up too, talking about his mom, his frustrations with school and work, and the doubts that never seemed to leave.

At one point, Grace reached over and pulled a blanket around them both, the space between them narrowing as the evening grew quieter.

"You're a good person, Ethan," Grace said softly, her head resting lightly against his shoulder.

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You're giving me way too much credit."

"I'm serious," she said, lifting her head to look at him. "You care about people more than you let on. You're stronger than you think. And I think..." She hesitated, her gaze dropping for a moment before meeting his again. "I think God's working in you, even if you don't see it yet."

Ethan's chest tightened, her words settling over him like a blanket of their own. For a moment, he wanted to believe her - to let himself imagine that he could be something more than what he was.

But then the doubts crept in, sharp, unrelenting, and louder than ever.

"I don't know, Grace," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know if I can believe in any of this."

Grace smiled faintly, her hand brushing against his. "That's okay. You don't have to figure it all out right now. Just... don't give up. Promise me you won't give up."

He nodded, though the weight his chest carried didn't ease. "I promise."

By the time Ethan left, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and shining under the glow of the streetlights. As he drove home, the new sketchpad sat on the seat beside him, a quiet reminder of the girl who somehow believed in him even when he didn't believe in himself.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt something other than the heavy ache of doubt.

He felt hope.

A/N:

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