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“I didn’t know where I was going tonight until I showed up here,” she says, voice hushed. “It’s like while my head went numb to block out the panic and pain that infiltrated it, my body took over and carried me here. Like a subconscious part of my brain knew I needed to come here, had unfinished business here.”
I stay silent as I stand and move into the row in front of me, sitting at her side, letting her talk out what she needs to.
“The smell shot me right back to my childhood the moment I opened the door and I saw our family sitting together in this very pew every week, my father up onstage in his neatly pressed suit. I felt the itchiness of the robe I wore when I sang in our choir. I heard the cadence of my father’s speech as he spoke to our congregation, voice pitching and falling and steady in a rhythm.”
She’s lost to her memories and I reach out and grab her hand, tethering her to present.
“My feet carried me up front as if on auto pilot and as soon as I sat down, it’s like the seat below me remembered me too.” Her voice cracks. “And I just started singing.”
I didn’t grow up in a religious household and have never given much thought to God or the church or what lies beyond, instead always trying to live in the here and now because that’s what I can see, that’s what I can control.
But I can see it’s something that has weighed on Scar’s shoulders, something she’s pushed away and repressed for years and is being brought to the surface returning home, returning to the church she was raised in.
“I think I’ve been so scared to even touch that part of myself for so long because with it I always felt judgment and unworthiness, like I was less than because I didn’t want to be part of everything I was raised in. But tonight, for some reason that all cracked open inside of me and I think I realized that I don’t need to fit into everything they demand to want to believe there’s something out there, some reason for everything,” Scar says and turns for me for the first time since I’ve arrived. Her eyes scan my face, looking for my reaction to her revelation, scared of what I think about what she’s saying.
We haven’t discussed religion much so far in our relationship, as I knew it was a sensitive subject for her that she preferred to never dive into. But I would never discourage her from exploring all that she needs to in order to feel at peace.
“Whatever you need to do, I’m here to support you,” I tell her, letting her see that I’m not here to judge her for whatever conclusions she comes to tonight. “But I do need to ask you if you intend on opening that bottle.” I tilt my head toward the bottle of vodka sitting on her other side.
Her brow creases, mouth straining at the corners. “I don’t know why I bought it.”
I shake my head at her. “Yes, you do.”
She sighs, heavy as if the weight of the world is sitting on her chest. She purses her lips, a dark rose color staining them, before turning her attention back to the altar in front of us. “I think in the same way my subconscious carried me here, I also fell back into the habit of when it all becomes too much, the world becomes too loud and the voice in the back of my head telling me I have a way to get relief for even a moment, I let myself feed into it.”
“Do you want to open that bottle?” I ask her, holding my breath awaiting her answer.
Scar’s silent for what feels like minutes but is only a few moments. “No.” She exhales. “I do, so badly. But I don’t want to go back. I’m sick of feeling stuck down in the past. I want to look ahead and keep moving forward.” She grabs the bottle and hands it to me, fingers holding on tightly for a moment as I take it from her before she releases it and as she does, it’s as if I can see a wave of darkness receding from her face.
I set the bottle on the floor by my feet and pull Scar into my side, the two of us sitting and staring at the church surrounding us, getting lost in the soft glow of the candles.
“I’m proud of you,” I tell her, kissing the top of her head. “Not just for that, but for coming here in the first place and facing those feelings I know you’ve kept buried for too long.”
Scar snuggles closer into me and the smell of her shampoo fills my nose, fresh and clean.
“I’m sorry if I worried you tonight,” she says against my chest.
“If? Scar, I was scared shitless.” I cringe, shooting an apology toward the ceiling and earning a soft chuckle from Scar. “No one had any idea where you went. I searched all over town for you, had Boone and the guys looking everywhere for you back in Charlotte in case you caught a ride back there.”
“I just needed some time alone.”
“I understand that. But you also have to understand that after a night like you’ve had with that dinner, I had a right to be worried about your well-being.” The words are unspoken, but I know she knows I’m referencing the bottle sitting on the ground.
“You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry.” She turns and lifts her head, bringing her lips to mine. I return the kiss, sinking into the comfort of her, opening my mouth to allow her entry, kissing her back with every ounce of love I can possibly give her.
I pull her tightly to me, never wanting to let her go.
Scar winds her hands up, rubbing them over my jaw and snaking their way into my hair to deepen our kiss, tongue tangling with my own.
Always trying to wrestle for dominance, this one.
I smile, pulling back and stare at her swollen mouth, wanting another taste but also aware of our surroundings.
“Are you ready to go, or did you want to stay a little longer?” I ask her, not wanting to rush her if she needs more time here by herself now that I know she’s safe.
She looks around for a moment, and I see a sense of peace has washed over her that I now realize has always been missing. “No,” she says, chest rising and falling. “Let’s go.”
And with that, we rise together as one and we exit the church into the cool night air, leaving behind the bottle and a weight off of Scar’s shoulders.
