Finding Us (Christian Interracial Romance)

Truth and Bruises {Part Two}

Cecilia

The clock on the wall ticks louder than it ever has before.

Every second stretches into forever as the house shifts into restless silence. None of us really know what to do with ourselves. Mom has gone back into the kitchen, but she isn't cooking anymore—she's just standing at the counter, towel in hand, twisting it tighter and tighter.

My sisters whisper in the corner, Zayna curls up against me, and Eric fiddles with the TV remote, not daring to turn it on.

I try to stay calm, but my heart won't stop racing. Dad's absence feels like a hole in the room, swallowing all the comfort I'd felt when I first walked through the door.

"Do you think it's work?" Jake finally asks.

Mom shakes her head, her mouth set in a grim line. "Luis never leaves this late for work."

"Then what?" Sheila presses.

No answer.

I find myself pacing the length of the living room, the anxiety coiling tighter and tighter in my stomach. Every sound from outside—a car passing, a door slamming, a dog barking—makes me flinch.

"Cecilia, sit," Mom urges gently.

"I can't." My voice cracks and I swallow hard. "I can't just sit here and pretend this is normal. He didn't even tell us where he was going."

Carlissa leans forward. "Maybe he didn't want us to worry."

"Well, it's not working," Eric mutters, arms crossed.

I rub at my temples, whispering under my breath, *Lord, give me peace. Give him protection.*

Thirty minutes pass. Then an hour. Still nothing.

Mom finally gathers us for prayer. We sit in a circle, hands linked, the air thick with unspoken fear.

"Lord," Mom begins, her voice trembling but strong, "keep Luis in Your hands. Guide him, protect him, and bring him home to us safely. Whatever he is facing, let him not face it alone. We trust You, Lord. Amen."

"Amen," we echo, though my throat feels tight around the word.

After prayer, the waiting continues. I try to distract myself by scrolling through the flood of comments still pouring in from the podcast, but every word of encouragement blurs past my eyes. I can't focus. Not when Dad's seat in the living room remains empty.

Zayna finally drifts off to sleep with her head in my lap. I stroke her hair absently, my own body buzzing with tension. My siblings drift in and out of conversation, but no one really says what we're all thinking.

What if he doesn't come back?

**********

It's nearly midnight when headlights flash across the front window. The sound of a car engine cuts off.

Everyone freezes.

A moment later, the front door opens. Dad steps inside. His shirt is wrinkled, his expression unreadable, but he's walking fine.

Relief crashes over me so hard it almost knocks me over. I carefully ease Zayna off my lap and stand.

"Dad," I breathe, half-scolding, half-sobbing. "Where were you?"

He doesn't answer right away. He just looks at us—all of us—like he's memorizing our faces. Then he kisses Mom on the forehead, squeezing her trembling hands in his.

"I told you I'd be back," he says simply.

But his eyes... his eyes are darker than when he left.

And something in my gut tells me the story of tonight is far from over.