Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (6 page)

“He’s working,” Jake says. “Out of town for a couple days.”

“Could you have him call me when he returns? I’d like his thoughts on something.”

“Sure.”

I make small talk with Becky, the pastor’s wife, while Jake types Pastor Noah’s number into his phone.

“We’d love to have you over again, Brielle,” she says. “Your father, too, if he’s up for it.”

“Oh, thank you. I’d like that and, um, I’ll let Dad know. You believe in miracles, right?”

“I do,” she says with a laugh. “I absolutely do.”

The ride home is quiet. I lean against Jake’s shoulder, tired, the nightmare taking its toll. Sunlight presses through the dirty windows of his beat-up Karmann Ghia, settling around me like a blanket.

“You’re making tired noises,” Jake says.

“That’s ’cause I’m tired. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“That’s weird for you, isn’t it?” he asks.

“I had a nightmare. First one since the halo, I think.”

“And you had it with you?”

“I put it under my pillow like I always do, but this morning it was on the ground. Probably knocked it off the bed.”

Jake’s quiet, and that means he’s thinking. Dissecting. Trying to solve the Rubik’s cube of life.

“Don’t overanalyze, okay? I had a busy day. I was restless.”

But Jake doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve never been restless before with the halo.”

“Canaan said I’d eventually grow more accustomed to it, right? That it won’t always affect me so intensely.”

He scans my face. “Yeah, I guess. If it happens again, though . . .”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you.” He kisses my forehead and then settles back in the seat. “You going to nap the day away then?”

“I wish. I told Kay I’d meet her at Jelly’s for lunch. You want to come?”

“I can’t,” he says. “Phil called. They need me at work.”

“Again?” Between my classes and his extra shifts we haven’t had much time together, and I’m all needy and crave-y right now. We could use a date. I nestle closer, trying to hold on to the last minutes I’ll have with him today. “So does that mean no surprise?”

“Would you mind waiting? I could give it to you now, but—”

“No, you’re right. I’d rather have time to thank you adequately. You have time for a quick bite at least?”

He kisses my forehead again, apologetic. “I have to be there at one.”

I groan, but only a little. It’s not his fault they’re shorthanded, and if the Throne Room is to be trusted, we’ll have the rest of our lives to be together.

“Good thing you had pancakes for breakfast.”

“Yeah,” he says, his shoulder suddenly rigid, “good thing.”

I roll my face toward his, loving the feel of his shirt against my cheek, but hating whatever emotion suddenly has his face in a choke hold.

“What, you don’t like my dad’s pancakes?”

A muscle in his cheek twitches, but he says nothing. He pulls his beater onto our gravel driveway and parks it behind Dad’s truck. I sit up, preparing myself for whatever’s bubbling behind the silence.

“What’s going on, Jake?”

It’s another minute before he says anything, his fingers deathly still on my leg.

“Your dad hates me.”

The words are flat. There’s no anger in them, but I don’t need the halo on my head to see the storm brewing in Jake’s eyes. Dad’s really gotten to him.

“I’m sorry about this morning. He can be a jerk sometimes. He doesn’t like change, and having his Sundays interrupted is like the—”

“It’s not just this morning. It’s . . . Canaan’s seen fear on your dad. He’s seen it multiply when he looks at me.”

Dad afraid of Jake? The thought is ludicrous. “Jake, this—”

“Have you seen it? The fear—have you seen it on your dad?” There’s something of an accusation in his tone, and it irritates me.

“I see fear on
everyone
, Jake, all the time. I’ve seen fear on Kaylee when she’s scrubbing a table at Jelly’s, for crying out loud. I see fear on the pizza delivery guy and the mailman. I’ve seen it on Miss Macy. Jake, I’ve seen fear on you.”

He blanches, but I press a hand to his chest, doing my best to still his thundering heart.

“
Everyone’s
afraid of something. But I swear to you, I’ve never seen anything excessive on Dad. Nothing that he hasn’t just shrugged off. If Canaan’s seen it—”

“He has.”

“It’s not you,” I say, squeezing his hand. “It’s not you at all. It’s . . . when he looks at you he sees . . .”

“God,” Jake says, his voice quiet. “And your dad hates God. He hates that your mom put her trust in God and then she died.”

I shift, moving away from him, from words that wedge into my ribs. I’ve come to grips with the reality that I may never understand my mom’s death, but it still hurts when it’s put out there like that. That for whatever reason God chose not to heal my mom.

“He thinks you trust your mom’s God because I do. He can’t see me without thinking of your mom. Without thinking of her death.”

The car feels smaller. All this talk of death and hate, suffocating.

“I think you’re overstating things a bit,” I say, finding a shaky version of my voice. “I’m his daughter—the only one he has. He’s jealous of my time and overprotective.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Jake shakes his head. Fear is invisible to me without the halo in place, but I hear it in his words, see it in the heaviness of his shoulders. “Canaan’s overprotective. Your dad’s got a vendetta or . . .”

He looks at me, really looks at me. I’m not sure what it is he’s seeing, but the hard shell of frustration that so quickly encased him begins to melt away. The rigidity leaves his arms and neck, and he hangs his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not you.”

“Of course it’s me. Dad’s a part of me, of who I am.” I run a finger from his ear down his jawline, wishing I could make this better for him. He closes his eyes at my touch, tiny bead-like tears pressing through his lashes. My heart breaks, and I press my lips to his. “I’m sorry this is so hard. I’m sure he’ll . . .”

“Come around?” Jake finishes. “But what if he doesn’t?”

Jake and I both know I could never walk away from Dad. I’m all he has. And I can’t even contemplate the other alternative.

“He will,” I say. I try to be adamant, but my words quaver.

Jake strokes my hand, his head bowed, wet lashes curling gently against his cheek. So warm, so close. But there’s something between us now. The beginnings of a wall, and I don’t know how to tear it down.

“I don’t want you to have to choose between me and your dad, Elle. We have enough battles to fight.” There’s something strange in his tone. Something that sounds like surrender.

But that can’t be right. Jake’s a fighter.

“There’s room in my life for both of you, and if the Throne Room’s right, I won’t have to choose.”

Jake goes pale, his hands clammy against mine. He pulls them away and wipes them on his pants. There are mere inches between us, but fear put them there. And I hate fear. It’s my hatred that fights back.

“You have my engagement ring next door, hand-delivered to you by the Throne Room of God Himself.” My voice is all high and squeaky. But I need him to hear me. I need him to fight the fear. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Jake licks his lips. “Because your dad—”

“That’s not it. It can’t be. You knew my dad had issues with God. You’ve known for half a year, Jake.” My throat is tight, sucking on the emotion of the moment. “You never said it was a deal breaker.”

Something shifts then. I feel it in my chest, in the fear dissolving around us. Jake leans across the seat, conviction in the russet flames that burn deep in his eyes. Their fire tugs at my skin, at my heart, pulling me closer, reducing the distance between us. He’s fighting it.

“There is no deal breaker, Elle. One day I
will
ask you to marry me whether your dad likes it or not.”

I lean my forehead against his, relieved. “Then why all the angst?”

I breathe him in. He smells like he always does, like coffee laced with sugar. Like adventure. Like safety.

Like the rest of my life.

I inhale it all.

And then an elephant lands on the roof of the car.

5
Brielle

I
think your dad’s going to eat my car.”

Jake’s face has lost all of its color. He’s looking over my shoulder and out the passenger-side window.

“It’s not your car he’s glaring at,” I say.

The pounding stops, but Dad is just standing there, his face all irritation and bristling whiskers. He’s . . . off. Something’s wrong with him. Against the yellow house a shimmer of red catches my attention. Olivia Holt drops gracefully down our porch steps. Her long legs bare, the hint of khaki shorts peeking out beneath her silky red blouse.

“If you’re done with my daughter,” Dad says, “could you move this piece of junk?”

I can do nothing but stare gape-mouthed. Dad’s always been protective, always been uncomfortable around Jake, but this isn’t like him. Dad can be a roughneck, but he’s not rude. At least not usually. It’s hard to imagine him treating anyone this way, especially someone I care about. Especially Jake.

“What?” Dad asks. “I’m just trying to back my truck out here.”

“See. Hate,” Jake whispers.

“Something’s wrong with him,” I say, my eyes falling on Olivia once again. I’m straining, trying to figure out how she messed Dad up so badly in two short hours. “I’d better go.”

“Yeah. I’ll call you later,” Jake says, his face a mess of sad and awkward. I want to fix it, make him feel better, but I can’t do anything with Dad’s fist hovering over the car. “You better go. He’s not getting any happier.”

No, he’s not.

I step from the car with every intention of throwing a massive tantrum, but as Jake backs down the driveway, I catch sight of his face. His lips are moving furiously. He’s praying. For me. For Dad. Probably for himself a little too.

So instead of rising to the occasion, I hook my finger through the halo on my wrist and say a silent prayer myself. I can’t think of anything nice to say to Dad, so like a good girl I won’t say anything at all. But when I try to step past him, I catch a whiff that stops me cold.

“Have you been drinking?”

“We had a couple beers,” Dad says. “Why?”

Olivia loops her arm through Dad’s. The sun streaks her hair; a world of bright color lies in those dark strands. It’s only then that I realize how young she is. She has the appearance of maturity, looks like she’s lived some, but she’s closer to my age than Dad’s. I turn my attention back to him.

“Because it’s noon,” I say.

I refuse to hide my disgust. He’s had drinking issues before, back when I was in junior high. It almost cost him the company, but he swore he’d taken care of that.

“It’s noon on a Sunday, love.” Olivia breaks away from Dad and moves closer. “Your dad’s all right. Just enjoying his weekend.”

I step away, sliding my hands into the wide pockets of my skirt. It’s a gesture her dark eyes don’t miss.

“That’s a beautiful bracelet,” she says. “Where’d you get it?”

“Why?”

“Elle,” Dad says, his voice a warning.

Olivia laughs, all teeth and throat. “Because it’s lovely. I think I’d like one.”

“Her boyfriend gave it to her,” Dad says, his eyes hard. “Can you believe that?”

Olivia taps her teeth with a crimson nail. “Boys don’t give their girlfriends trinkets like that, love.”

“That’s what I told her,” Dad says.

“Not unless they want something in return,” she finishes.

I look to Dad, hoping he’ll jump in, defend my honor, but he just raises his eyebrows, a stupid drunken grin on his face.

“I have to go,” I say. “I’m meeting Kay.”

“Tell her I’ll call tomorrow, will you? So many ideas to chat about. Can’t wait to really dig my hands into Stratus, you know?”

I don’t know, actually, but something about the gleam in her eye tells me I should. I should want to know exactly what she’s planning to do with Stratus. But right now I need to get away. From her. From Dad.

I run up the driveway, my sandals sending gravel flying like shrapnel. It peppers my bare legs, but I don’t slow. I stomp up the porch stairs and fling open the kitchen door. When I’ve slammed it behind me, I sink to the floor and yank my sandals off. One at a time, I dig out the rocks that have wedged themselves between my toes.

And I cry. I do. I’m a crier. I wish I wasn’t, but I am.

And that’s when I hear it.

The music.

Every note pitch-perfect. The arrangement unearthly. So unearthly I tug the halo off my wrist and wait as it transforms into the crown. “Come on, come on.”

Finally!

I jump to my feet, the halo on my head. With a slow build of heat and color, the Celestial comes into view, and with heavenly eyes I see the worship. My house is full of it. Ice-blue tendrils curl through the blazing air around me, filling my kitchen. They press against the walls, lifting higher and higher, slipping through the ceiling and into the sky above. I spin, looking for the source of the song, but I can’t find it.

I run through the house, holding the halo tight to my head, looking for the rogue worshiper, looking for the maker of such beautiful music. I run through the archway and into the living room, down the hallway that takes me past the bathroom and the laundry room. I step into Dad’s room, but there’s nothing. Just the incense of worship tangling together as the music continues on, note after breathtaking note.

A door slams.

“Brielle?”

It’s Dad.

Shoot. I’m standing in the doorway of my own room, my hands still on the halo. I yank it from my head, wincing at the hair I’ve torn away. It starts transforming immediately, but it’s not moving nearly fast enough, so I toss it onto my bed and pull my door shut before ducking back into the kitchen.

“Dad? What are you doing? Where’s Olivia?” I’m talking too fast, my body reeling from the abrupt transfer back to all things Terrestrial, but Dad doesn’t seem to notice.

“She’s in the truck. You seen my wallet?”

I pluck it from the counter and hand it to him.