Temptation: A Novel (38 page)

108. Remorse

The L-train shakes and hums and I don’t want to get off. I want to stay on here all night. I want to stay inside here the rest of my life.

I feel a deep ache inside of me. Something worse than how I felt over Jocelyn or Lily. Because this ache is because—and for—me.

I’m tired. No, I’m beyond tired. I’m exhausted.

I just want some peace.

But Mom is missing and I know that peace is a long ways away. I’m scared for her and scared to find out the truth. I know I have to go back and know this is the nice little message they’re sending to me.

I’m alone in this seat, and there’s nobody watching. Nobody prying. Nobody bothering. It’s just me. Just me and my Maker.

I know now that God is above, watching. But in many ways, I’ve always believed He was there. I had doubts and I could laugh it off or shove it away, but I sorta always still kind of believed. When Dad finally announced that he had made a big change, it felt all wrong. Of all the people in my life, it was
Dad?
The man who I didn’t know, who had been out of our lives, the man now saying he had found faith.

That made me decide.

But deciding is one thing.

This ache—gnawing, twisting, hurting—won’t go away.

I’m seventeen and oh am I stupid.

I’m seventeen and oh am I so silly.

I feel the weight of my problems and mistakes and sins spiraling inside of me.

A teen is supposed to have problems and make mistakes. But sins? Really?

But I know.

This isn’t for show and isn’t out of guilt. I’m not a kid anymore. A kid moved down to Solitary, but that kid grew up.

Now, inside of this empty car, the boy who became a young man sits there. Without any doubt, but unsure of how to move on. Unsure what to do next.

“I tried,” I say out loud.

And yes, I did try. I tried to do it my way.

I even dared God to come hunt me down if He was up there.

Well, Chris?

I feel a shudder go through my body.

Well?

I feel warm and cold at the same time. The world circling around me without the help of a drop of alcohol or caffeine.

“What do You want from me?” I ask Him. “What do You want me to do?”

I feel tears blur my eyes and I let them stay.

I feel so heavy, so hard, so stuck.

“I’m sorry. Okay. Is that what You want to hear?”

I think of the words my father said:

But He is there, and He does love you. And that love—there’s nothing like it, Chris.

I think of the words Kelsey said:

Jesus says for anybody who’s tired and heavyhearted to come to Him.

And then I think of Jocelyn. This girl who knew she was on a one-way track like I am toward one single destination. And yet she still could find the way to say that she believed in the place she was going. That there was only good in that place, that she didn’t have to fear anymore. Or have regret. Or apologize.

What do you want?
Pastor Marsh asked me.

I look at my hands.

Everything feels so heavy.

All I want …

“I want the hurt to go away,” I say in a loud voice.

I just want it all to go away.

I want to bottle it up and throw it out into the ocean.

I want to set a fire to it and watch it drift out into the night sky.

I want something to soak it up and then leave me dry.

I want someone to take this heavy hurt inside away.

He’ll give you rest.

I tried running, but I guess He hunted me down after all.

I shiver.

“If You can, Jesus, take this—take all of it—take every little drop of it and take it away. Please.”

This whole dark world needs hope.

That’s what Jocelyn said. It was a year ago when she died. And when some important part of me died with her.

Or so I thought.

I hold the seat in front of me and stare down at the floor. Then I close my eyes.

“Take this hurt and replace it with that same hope that beautiful girl had, God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for trying not to believe. I’m so sorry for being so stupid.”

I open my eyes and then look ahead. I wipe them and see the night outside.

I know that there is unfinished business back in Solitary, and I know I need to go back.

For my mom’s sake. And for my own.

I just know that if I do go back—no,
when
I go back, that I need help on my side.

Help and hope.

And maybe, just maybe, God above will be kind enough to take some of the hurt away.

AfterWords

… a little more …

When a delightful concert comes to an end,

the orchestra might offer an encore.

When a fine meal comes to an end,

it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

When a great story comes to an end,

we think you may want to linger.

And so, we offer …

AfterWords
—
just a little something more after you

have finished a David C Cook novel.

We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

Thanks for reading!

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