Strongwill Shorties

Dating the Preacher's Daughter (Part 2)

We drove down the busy streets of NCR. I was on the wheels, Rhema was the GPS. Her feet were up on the dashboard, swinging in her black Converse. Owl City songs erupted from the car's speakers, and we were singing and laughing with our lungs in our throats. After two albums and a half of city-lights and traffic jam, Rhema told me to enter a houseless block. We stopped in front of a sign that says, "n0 3spazzing!!!"

"My uncle owns this place," she explained, removing her seatbelt. She went out of the car so she could hold up the chains and I could pull over in the empty lot.

She slipped back in the car and into the backseat, and threw me backpacks. Rhema was never one for purses; she always had too much to bring. She called herself a girl scout, but really she was just a packrat, never short of scratch paper, candy wrappers, and of the sort. Before she'd suggested in class, with huge eyes looking upwards awing at the plain wooden ceiling as if she were beholding the Aurora Borealis, that maybe if she grew up with a mother she would be more organized; then giggled and said, "Naaaw!"

Rhema was back in the passenger seat, reaching into one of her bags. She tossed me the shirt she once borrowed after gym class. I changed as she wore her jacket, and followed her out of the car.

The space was grassy. The buildings were so far off in the distance I was wondering if we'd reached a province. Rhema pulled out a sleeping mat and unrolled it on the car's roof. I climbed the car and helped her up.

The stars were clear against the clear sky. We lay side by side, catching up on each other, neither of us mentioning her avoidance of me. We played a game:

"If you were an ocean, which would you be?" she asked, munching on Oreos.

"Antarctic." I reached over for the food. "You?"

She slapped away my hand, giggled, and wedged a cookie in my mouth herself. "Arctic."

I ate before asking, "If you were a note, what would you be? I'd be an E-flat."

"I'd be a C."

"Nah. Too ordinary."

"I am ordinary, thank you very much." I could see her blush, which hinted her resolution.

"No, you're not," I couldn't help but snigger.

"Oh, yes I am. I'm a plain, smooth stone. A white-washed wall . . . or maybe even one left unpainted."

Her answers were exactly why she wasn't, but, "At least we complement each other," was all I replied.

"You'd be better off with a G," she said in a wistful tone, a fire tree losing its blossoms; "...or an F-sharp." She put away the empty plastic pack, and snuggled up to me. She told me about buying She's Come Undone because she'd torn her copy when she was thirteen, apparently appalled by a woman fucking another woman; about picking up a violin again; about strawberry cheesecake, and beige stilettoes; and many more things. I'd fallen silent as the stars, immensely overwhelmed by the moment: I was there and then, alone with her.

"I was reading Jeremiah this morning," she whispered. "'He stretches the Heavens as curtains,' reminded me of you."

"Hmm?"

"I can't forget how cheery you were to know I thought, too, that the universe is expanding."

I frowned, recalling the barrier between us that she couldn't tear down: her consciousness's biblical filter. When we disagreed we didn't spar, we clashed-on the definition of infinity, the degree of literalness of Genesis, the logical implications of moral relativism. I hated those moments, when we talked, cuddling till our conversation hit a rock-when her body would tense up against mine, her face brightly ablush. We usually reconciled by ceasing discussion, by her abruptly asking if I wanted lemonade, or planting a kiss on my cheek.

Rhema slipped her hand behind my neck. She smiled, and the next thing I knew stars spilled from the heavens: she put her mouth on mine. As far as exchanging saliva was concerned, sharing a slice of pizza or a cup of juice was the closest it could get; so having Rhema's tongue flounder for mine was a planet spinning out of orbit.

It took me a moment before I managed to lock my arms around her waist and kiss her back. She tasted like watermelon shake and Oreo. Her hand was still on the back of my head, fingers groping through my hair. She had so often told me the Trinity was within her. Perhaps she was right: if there really were a god, I also tasted it in her. She was utterly delectable. I was going drunk.

When my lips felt raw, I hazarded, "I love you."

She slowly pulled away, and the stars floated back to the skies. She didn't even smile. I wanted to ask why she had disappeared the other week, but didn't, afraid she'd go away again. She had tried so hard to be my friend, ended up being the best one I ever had, and the thought of losing her was simply appalling.

"You'll hate me soon."

It wasn't a new thing for me to hear; she'd always said that I'd hate her someday. I had told her it hurt me, as if she didn't trust me to love her for who she was.

"Sorry," she sobbed. Rhema nuzzled my chin and closed her eyes. She soon drifted off in my arms. It was galaxies more fulfilling than Facebook heart stickers or midnight private Snapchats of her sleepy face.

The pictures I'd saved on my tablet showed her big, slanted eyes, pinched nose, thin lips; but in person she was even fairer, her skin more milky. I tried to memorize her in that moment for my Rhema was a sparrow too fragile to cage; I could only keep her in my hands for only so long till she decided to fly away.