Finding Us (Christian Interracial Romance)

The Road Back to Light

Jeremy

The sun's just starting to climb the hills when we hit the road. The drive from Ojai to Los Angeles always feels shorter coming back, maybe because part of me doesn't want it to end this time.

Cecilia's curled up in the passenger seat, her bonnet now replaced by her curls styled in braided pigtails. She's scrolling through her phone, humming softly to "Butterflies" by Michael Jackson, one leg tucked under her. The sound of her humming fills the car like a soft sunrise—gentle, steady, healing.

We've barely hit the main road when she looks up at me and smiles. "You're quiet again."

I grin. "You say that a lot lately." 

"That's because you are," she teases. "I can always tell when your brain's writing something." 

She's right, of course. I've been thinking for quite a while. Not about a script or some creative idea—but about something deeper. Something that's been pressing on my heart since the other night's dream and this morning's prayer. 

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. "Hey," I begin, glancing her way. "Can I tell you something?" 

She looks at me with that gentle curiosity that always disarms me. "Of course." 

I take a breath. "When we get home... I want to get baptized." 

Her eyes widen a little, not in shock but in this tender kind of joy that makes my chest ache. "Jeremy..." she breathes, her hand covering her heart. "You for real?" 

I nod. "I am. I'v been praying about it since a few days ago. God's been pulling at me for months, but after everything—that dream, our prayers, this weekend—I can't pull it off anymore. I want to start new. Not just say I believe, but live like it." 

She's quiet for a long moment. The hum of the tires fills the silence between us. Then she reaches over, resting her hand on mine. 

"I think that's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me, Jeremy," she whispers. 

I glance at her, heart swelling. "I want you there. You, our friends, and our families. I want everyone who's prayed for me, who's seen me at my worst, to see me surrender this part of my life to God." 

Cecilia's eyes glisten and for a moment she can't speak. Then she smiles—slow, radiant. "We'll all be there . You have no idea how proud I am of you." 

"I think I might have a clue," I tease softly. 

She laughs  through her tears, squeezing my hand. "Oh, you definitely do." 

The rest of the drive hums with that easy kind of silence that only exists between two people  who understand each other's hearts without needing to fill the air. 

About halway down the highway, we pass through Ventura and she leans her head against the window. "You know," she speaks dreamily. "I remember driving the same road when we were teenagers. I had my Discman and CD full of Selena songs. You wouldn't stop making fun of me." 

I laugh. "Because you were crying over 'Dreaming of You.' I thought you broke up with someone!"

She smirks. "I told you I was emotional even back then and it's a tearjerker for me. Selena was my therapy."   

That makes me glance at her again—the way her expression softens when she says Selena's name, like she's remembering who she was before the world expected her to be someone else.

"You should sing her again," I suggest. "You light up when you talk about her." 

She smiles quietly. "Maybe I will."