Sunday - November 5, 2017 - 9:23 a.m.

I examined myself meticulously in the mirror as I combed my damp hair into its standard church format. Letting out a slightly depressed yawn, I grabbed my shimmering blue tie from the back of my chair and clipped it onto the rigid collar of my dress shirt. I wasn't sure who invented the clip-on tie, but, as I slipped into my charcoal gray sport coat, I silently thanked them for allowing my air intake to remain unobstructed for the two excruciating hours that lay ahead.

Cassie owes me big time for this, I thought to myself as I made my way downstairs. Especially after flaking on me last night.

All morning I'd been racking my brain to figure out why she'd ghosted me. I'd shot her a text around eight to confirm our plans for movie night, and she'd responded that she was on her way. But after a couple hours and four futile calls later, I'd heard nothing from her for the rest of the night. I was positive her phone had been on, too, since I'd gotten the ringback tone before getting her voicemail. I figured she must've fallen asleep or something.

"All ready to repent on this fine morning?" my mom teased as I walked into the kitchen.

"Yep. I gotta hustle, too," I said as I hastily smeared a thin square of butter onto an English muffin and grabbed my car keys. "We're leaving at ten."

I'd known Cassie's family long enough to know that ten o'clock was code for nine forty-five.

"Have fun, my little sinner," she said playfully, planting a kiss on my forehead before returning to the sizzling home fries on the stove. "Tell Mr. and Mrs. Angeles I said hi. Oh, and if you guys go out to lunch afterwards, make sure to bring your favorite mom a doggie bag."

"Will do." I gave her a smile and headed for the door, glad to know her only motive in my spiritual cleansing was the free food.

"Brandon!" yelled a shrill voice from upstairs, followed by the patter of running feet. "Mom! Did Brandon leave yet?"

Noah came shuffling down the stairs faster than Usain Bolt. He was wearing black sweatpants with the Batman logo plastered along the leg, a novelty T-shirt displaying the exterior of a tuxedo, and the top hat from his Abraham Lincoln Halloween costume.

"Can I come to church with you, Brandon?" he asked. "Look, I dressed up and everything!"

I reached down and scooped him up like a baby carp in a pelican's bill.

"Church is a kid's worst nightmare, trust me. You have to sit in a room and listen to someone talk for an hour and a half. Sounds like torture, am I right?"

His face scrunched with skepticism. "If it's torture, then why are you going?"

Not a bad question, I thought.

I'd never been the biggest fan of church, and I was eternally grateful my parents had never forced it upon me as a child. The whole "higher power" thing had never seemed to fit in my life. It's not like I viewed every churchgoer as some stuffy, close-minded Jesus-freak; I knew most of them were ordinary people whose spirituality played in a big role in their lives.

Unfortunately, Cassie had fallen prey to that very circumstance.

In the Angeles household, church was mandatory every Sunday, and Cassie never missed a chance to lament about how excruciating an outing it was for her: jammed in a crowded pew, listening to the pastor drone on about struggle and sacrifice, having to stand up and chant biblical hymns every now and then like in some sort of cult. She would always turn to me during the service and say things like "Have we verified that any of this is legit?" or "People will believe anything if you dupe them hard enough."

While I didn't express my disdain to quite the same degree, I completely understood her frustration. This is why I agreed to come along whenever she invited me. If she was forced to suffer on her Sunday morning, I'd be right by her side in that pew, suffering along with her.

"Sometimes in life, you have to do things you don't really want to," I answered, setting Noah back on the floor and opened the door to leave. I decided now wasn't the best time to explain selflessness to a six-year-old.

"But I do wanna!" he persisted. "I wanna go to church with you and Cassie!"

I turned back around and kneeled down so that we were face to face. "I'll tell you what, big guy. As soon as I get home, I'll call Axel and Sam, and we'll all head over to the park and run a scrimmage. How does that sound?"

His face lit up like a light bulb. "Like the Chiefs do before the season starts?"

"You bet," I said. "But you have to stay here until I get back."

"Come here, baby," my mom said, extending her arms to Noah as she plopped back down on the couch to resume The Newlywed Game. "Brandon will be back before you know it."

"Okay!" he exclaimed, his dejection suddenly replaced with a frenzied excitement. "I call dibs on running back!"

I chuckled, giving him a nod of approval as I walked out the door.

·           ·           ·         

"Brandon! So nice to see you, dear."

Mrs. Angeles stepped aside, allowing me into the house.

"Nice to see you too, Mrs. Angeles."

As I walked into the foyer, I was slightly taken aback to find the house's usual Sunday morning aroma of sausage and cinnamon rolls replaced by one of rancid oatmeal. Apparently no effort was being spared on this new family diet.

"I'm so glad Cassie invited me to come along," I lied.

"Well, I'm glad you could join us. You're welcome any time." She took a seat at the dining room table, hastily emptying a sugar packet into her travel mug. "Speaking of Cassie, would you mind checking on her, dear? She hasn't left her room all morning. We should be leaving soon for the service."

"Sure," I said, eager to forgo the smalltalk.

As I walked down the hall to Cassie's room, I paused to look at the framed photos hanging in a zigzagged trail along the wall. I'd seen them hundreds of times by now, yet every time I passed by, I felt like I was stumbling upon them for the first time.

My favorite was the one on the very end. It was of a six-year-old, pig-tailed, tooth-deprived Cassie outside the dugout of Busch Stadium, perched upon the shoulders of former Cardinals' shortstop David Eckstein. On her left hand sat a red foam finger bigger the size of her head and torso combined; the right one held a stick of cotton candy as pink and puffy as the sunset clouds that filled the sky above her.

"Cass?" I said, knocking lightly on the door.

There was no response.

I pressed my ear to the door, unable to detect the slightest trace of sound. I slowly twisted the knob and cracked the door a few inches.

Cassie lay face down in her bed, sprawled out like a starfish washed ashore during high tide. Her blanket was stranded in a heap on the floor, and there was a wastebasket stationed in front of her nightstand. She didn't move a millimeter as I opened the door all the way and walked into the room.

"Cass?" I muttered again.

No movement.

I immediately sensed something odd about the whole scene.

The window overlooking the roof was wide open, despite the frigid cold front that had swept in out of nowhere earlier this morning. Sprinkles of dirt lined the window sill, and tiny spots of what looked to be crusted mud had formed a trail on the white carpet leading to the bed. But the thing that struck me as most peculiar was her choice of pajamas: skin-tight jeans, the back of which were smeared with grass stains, and a thick teal hoodie she'd borrowed—and subsequently stolen—from me back in eighth grade. She was even wearing socks—and it was common knowledge that people who slept in socks were not to be trusted.

"Cassie." I nudged her side lightly. "Cassie, wake up."

She didn't stir.

I suddenly began to worry. Her body seemed to be petrified, like a mangled corpse that had been dumped into the ocean a week prior. I leaned over and gently pulled her hood back to get a better look at her face. A wave of relief pulsed through me as I detected the slight breathing movement in her neck.

I nudged her more forcefully this time. "Cassie..."

This time there was a distinct groan, which sounded like music to my ears.

"Cassie. We're leaving for church soon."

"Mhm," she managed in response. Her head bobbed up slightly, only to plummet right back down to the pillow a split second later.

"Cassie, we need to leave," I repeated.

"Leave?" she murmured. She raised a hand to her face, picking the strands of hair from her eyes as she strenuously hoisted herself into an upright position. She glanced around the room with a dazed look in her eye, jolting back as her gaze fell on me.

A look of panic suddenly flooded into her face.

"Fuck!" she blurted.

Without skipping a beat, she shot up from her bed and swung open her closet doors. She payed me no mind as she began frantically sifting through shirts, tossing the contenders onto her bed and flinging the rejects aimlessly behind her.

"I completely forgot," she said as she tore her socks off and ripped off her hoodie with lightning speed.

"It's not that big a deal," I reassured her. "I don't think God will condemn us to the fiery pits of hell for being a few minutes late."

"Try telling that to Mary Magdalene downstairs," she replied, hastily sliding a turquoise dress off of its hanger.

Her mother was a stickler for punctuality, especially in the house of God, so Cassie's urgency seemed quite understandable. Still, as I observed her scrambling to get ready, I couldn't help but feel like she appeared more on edge than usual this morning.

"Are you feeling okay?" I asked.

She whipped around to face me. "What do you mean?" she asked, a rattled edge in her voice.

I pointed tentatively to the wastebasket beside her bed.

"Oh," she responded, averting her attention back to her wardrobe selection. "I had a real bad stomach bug last night. I think it was something I ate for dinner."

Poor thing. The culprit must've been one of the staples of her family's health cleanse. My money was on the smoked salmon.

"Maybe you could take this Sunday off from church," I suggested.

"I'll be fine," she insisted, though her deflated tone suggested otherwise.

I sat down on the edge of her bed as she simultaneously brushed her matted hair and rifled through necklaces in her jewelry box. My eyes wandered back to the specks of mud along the carpet.

"I guess you weren't feeling movie night, then?" I asked. I tried not to sound reproachful, but as soon as the words left my lips, I knew it had come off that way.

Her body froze suddenly before jerking around to face me. A strange fluster filled her eyes, one I'd never seen before.

"Shit," she said, massaging her temples as she sank into the chair beside her, remorse flooding across her face. "Brandon, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I didn't mean to blow you off, I swear. The stomach pains were just so bad—I could barely get out of bed. I must've fallen asleep right after I texted you."

I sauntered over to her, instantly regretting that I'd brought this up. She flinched slightly as I held up my finger to graze her cheek.

"It's all good," I said. "Being puked on isn't exactly my idea of a romantic evening."

She managed a half-hearted smile before returning to her mirror. "Can you tell my parents I'll be right down?"

Before I had a chance to inquire about the mud caked onto the carpet, or take a playful jab at her for sleeping in socks, she was ushering me out of the room, gently closing the door behind me.

As I walked back downstairs, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was a tad off with Cassie this morning. She seemed to be acting unusually high-strung about something I was struggling to identify. Every word I said to her seemed to shake her insides, make her freeze on the spot. I'd known her long enough to know that she could be somewhat groggy in the mornings, but this was a whole different vibe.

Maybe she was just irritated that she had to sacrifice yet another Sunday morning trading in sleep and serenity for sermons and stale bread. I supposed I'd be a little riled, too, if my parents indirectly caused my food poising and then had the audacity to drag me to church the next morning.

My suspicions only heightened when Cassie's oddly reclusive behavior continued into the service.

On any normal Sunday, she couldn't go more than five minutes without turning to me to silently mock something the pastor had said, or to comment on how absurd the moral of his narrative was. But today, as he invited us to explore the divine task of forgiving our enemies, she didn't utter so much as a word to me as we sat next to each other in the congested pew. I didn't even detect her usual begrudging groan as we were prompted to rise for the opening hymn.

Every now and then, I'd shoot her a side-eyed glance, searching for that vibrant smile of hers—the one she always cast me from the sidelines during the football games—but her expression remained as rigid as a wax figure in a museum. She didn't necessarily look sad or dispirited, but rather void of any emotion at all.

Was she was upset with me? I scoured my mind for any possible reason that might be the case. Somehow I'd never mastered the highly specialized craft of realizing when I'd said the wrong thing, and it was perfectly plausible that I'd slipped up recently.

Girls were peculiar creatures whose enigmatic ways perplexed me to no end. When they were feeling upset, they often refrained from expressing their grievances directly, which made it difficult to identify them in the first place. When you finally mustered up the courage to inquire, you were greeted with the infamous "I'm fine." Despite this seemingly irrefutable affirmation, it was rarely genuine. After a certain amount of subtle sighs and passive aggressive texts, they became disillusioned with your oblivious ways, and it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose. Even after the catastrophic quarrel that ensued, they still refused to disclose exactly how you'd fucked up, assuming you'd figure it out on your own and take the corrective action.

The most confusing part of all this, though, was that Cassie was the complete opposite. She never hesitated to voice her concerns upfront, eager to address them as soon as they surfaced. The two of us never struggled with communication the way so many other couples do. We were always direct about any issues affecting us, squashing them before they had a chance to fester.

It was around noon when we arrived back home. Soft beads of rain clung to my skin as I walked Cassie to the door.

"I'm so glad you could join us, Brandon," Mrs. Angeles said, stopping to water her hydrangeas before retreating into the house. "By the way, let your mother know that a spot just opened up in my weekly book club. We're starting The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane next week!"

"Will do," I lied with a convincing smile. I liked my mom too much to subject her to such torment.

I stood with Cassie for a moment before returning to my car, trying once again to gauge her demeanor. I couldn't bring myself to leave without ensuring she was alright.

"You wanna grab lunch or something?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I'll take a rain check," she mumbled, gazing up at the gloomy, colorless sky. She'd seemed to have trouble holding eye contact the entire morning.

"Is everything alright?" I asked, trying my best to avoid an intrusive tone.

Her eyes shot abruptly to mine, as if my words had alarmed her. It was one of the few times this morning she'd held eye contact for more than a few seconds.

"Yeah," she insisted. "I'm just tired, that's all." Her eyes strayed from mine as quickly as they'd arrived.

I leaned in and gave her a light peck on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Her lips curled into a half-smile, and she managed a tentative wave as I headed down the steps and back to my car.

Everyone has those days, I thought to myself as I cruised home to the steady thrum of rain pelting against my windshield. She'll be back to normal by tomorrow.

·           ·           ·

"Jesus Christ, Sam!" Axel yelled, dropping the football in shock. "Have you lost the few fucking marbles you had to begin with?"

I gasped in agreement as Sam stood before us, lifting the side of his windbreaker to reveal a freshly inked tattoo along his rib.

Aesthetically, it wasn't half bad. The artwork consisted of a set of three-dimensional crimson roses, whose thorny, snake-like stems formed a sort of shackling chain around five intricately etched letters: HAZEL.

"You're certifiable, man," Axel added. "Please tell me this was at least the result of some mind-altering substance."

Sam let out an amused chortle as he picked up the football and tossed it to Noah. "Oh, there was definitely a mind-altering substance at play. It's called young, undying love."

"Okay, Nicholas Sparks," I said, chuckling. "I gotta admit, it does look pretty badass."

"I'm open, kiddo!" Sam shouted as Noah's six-year-old hands propelled the football from the other end of the park. "It better look badass. Do you know how fucking painful this shit was? Not to mention I'm out two hundred bucks."

Axel began chasing Noah around the field at a modest pace, feigning exhaustion with a few exaggerated breaths. "I'm curious," he began, "what happens ten years from now when you're gettin' it on with your new girlfriend? A tattoo of your highschool sweetheart's name isn't exactly a panty-dropper."

"There's not gonna be a new girlfriend," Sam insisted, a blaring confidence in his voice. "You guys don't understand. Hazel's not some hit-and-quit I met at a party after a few too many Jägerbombs. We're in love—big time. Our connection has been stronger than ever lately, and we're not slowing down anytime soon."

Axel and I exchanged skeptical glances as we headed over to the swings while Sam and Noah practiced snapping techniques.

"Blue fourty-two!" Noah yelled, hunching over into the grass with the football clenched between his tiny hands. "Set...hike!"

My lips couldn't help but flicker into a smile whenever I witnessed him following in my footsteps. I remembered the day he first asked me to play catch with him on our front lawn, and ever since, his passion for the game had grown tenfold.

Nothing in life brought me more gratification than being a mentor to him. It feuled my own motivation, in fact, pushing me to perform my best in every game, to perfect my craft as much as humanly possible, just so I could pass this knowledge onto him some day.

"Isn't Cassie's birthday coming up?" Axel asked, ejecting himself from his flying swing.

I nodded. "This Saturday."

Usually I was as lousy at remembering birthdays as I was at cooking—and I hadn't broken out a recipe in years. I had no problem when it came to Cassie's special day, though, because it just so happened to be the same day I lost the most important guy in my life. Talk about bittersweet.

"You guys doing anything fun?"

"I don't know," I said, fidgeting with the woodchips beneath me.

"Fun" was hard to buy as an unemployed teenager.

I hated not being able to afford a decent gift for Cassie on her