Beginnings, episode 4: Star-crossed

Savvi closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of the night - damp grass, spicy flowers, the sweet tang of the concession's kettle corn. Not that the night would prove as sweet.

Opening her eyes, she glanced at the scoreboard and her heart sank. On the few nights that Weston's rugby team won, he would drag her to a party, high on adrenaline, and they could laugh away the rest of the night with friends.

Losing nights? Wes Wright did not lose well.

He's just upset that his parents left him, she assured herself as she sucked in her anxiety and shoved it down into the box where she kept it. Anyone would lose it after going through what he had. Anyone would be fragile...

Like all the other players' girlfriends, she made her way to the courtyard outside the locker room, and she chatted with them as the boys came out one by one. Wes would be the last one out, or near the last. He wasn't going to force himself to be social, to fake friendliness as he weeded through a crowd.

He wasn't the best with crowds - or individuals. He could and would put on a show, though, when necessary.

"I'm so sorry, Wes." She reached a hand to his arm.

"Don't touch me," he hissed, and she pulled her hand back. He stormed his way to his muscle car, born the same year as he was. "It was that coach. He's screwing with my head."

"What happened?" Savvi wondered as they lowered themselves into the seats and heaved the heavy metal doors shut.

"I don't want to talk about it," he grunted, slamming the car into reverse.

Savvi quickly clicked her seatbelt into place, her heart aching for his upset even as it thudded with fear at the rising speed. For almost thirty minutes, they flew down the dark highway, far outside the city limits until he jerked the car across two lanes onto an unfamiliar exit.

Of course, he craved the dark. The calm. The peace. He had always craved peace.

Only once they had traveled down several country roads and found an abandoned drive, where he could settle and stare into the night. Only then did he stop moving. Only then did he raise the center console and slide across the space to her.

Now when she raised her hand, he didn't push her away. Now, he yanked her to him, hard against him, and began to explore her face with his lips, her mouth, her neck, his hands always moving. Never settling. Releasing all the fury and ache that had buried him for the past several months.

The pain that he successfully hid during the predictable, mundane daytime but that simmered and bubbled from molten fires within at the slightest tremor of unforeseen difficulty.

"Please, Wes. Stop."

His hands slid to the skin at her waist, but his mouth left her neck.

"That coach hates me," he complained as his fingers trailed along the waistline of her jeans. "He keeps me on the bench because he thinks if he pushes be down, I'll fight harder to get back up."

"Maybe you can talk to the head coach about it," she ventured, but instead of answering, Wes just gripped the back of her head and pulled her mouth back to his. He lowered her to the seat, pinning her under his weight, and for more time than she could remember, he quenched his misery by indulging the flesh.

Savvi wanted him to stop. She loved him, but she also loved Jesus. When his fingers reached for the button on her jeans, she clenched her hand over his. "Stop now..." she panted, and all the tension left his body. He slid his hand away and pulled himself upright.

As she slipped back to her seat, watching his cooler expression, guilt clutched her. Guilt at the compromises she made for him, and guilt that it was never enough. Whatever she gave, it never repaired what was broken inside him.

She should have learned then. She should have seen.

But in far too many ways, Savvi was blind.

++++++

Carol gave up on the nap. She had driven the thirty minutes from their home to the church just for Lewis to spend an hour in choir rehearsal. It was not remotely worth it to drive back to the house, but the nap was just not happening today.

Reaching for the lever that would raise her to a sitting position, her hand halted on the little piece of plastic.

Someone was yelling - or low-key screeching - at someone. It wasn't particularly loud, but it was incredibly harsh.

"I told you we couldn't spend the money!" hissed a male tone. "How much did this cost?"

"It was on sale!" replied a woman, obviously defensive, but there was a definite tone of pleading in the voice. "I know how much you love coffee, and Monica Woczowki said this was the best. Remember that latte we had at her house?"

"Does that negate what I said? It's not an approved expense!"

"By your dad?" the woman wondered. "Don't you think you can figure out how to spend your own money? Don't you think I can?"

The voices were fading, and Carol couldn't resist leaning up a little for a peek.

Reuben Griffith?

And his sweet wife Georgie. Not that Carol believed Georgie a weak woman - just kind, with a lot of energy. It was a little disconcerting to hear the pastor's son in such a state.

Even worse, once Carol had sat all the way up, she noticed Georgie, her thin, fit frame hunched over with disappointment, where she approached a grey minivan. Whatever she could discern about that exchange, it looked like Georgie really loved her husband, and it looked like he really didn't care much.