"Excuse me?" I asked. I heard him, but I wanted to make sure I heard correctly.

Forrest repeated his question with clarity and patience. "Do you believe in God?"

I took the word God and examined it gently. It brought me to the memory of simpler days, days where I was still familiar with . . . innocence. I used to frequently go to church when I was much younger, and I used to pray every night. I used to wear a rosary bracelet, and I used to keep a small Bible in my schoolbag. I used to believe.

But that all stopped a long time ago.

"Not really. Not anymore," I finally answered. The words made me feel hollow. "But I'm guessing you do?"

Forrest nodded slowly. "Yes, absolutely, but my family . . . we're not strictly religious or anything. Uh, we attend Santa Barbara every Sunday - have you ever been there?"

"No. I used to attend St. Luke, but I haven't been there in years."

He absorbed this information. "I hope you don't mind -" I already knew what he was going to say. "But why don't you . . . Why did you stop?"

He stepped away from the stove and faced me. The rich scent of the Alfredo sauce made its way to me, and I knew it would taste amazing once we ate. But I barely paid attention to that now. In my head, I struggled to find a response. How could I explain something I still didn't completely understand?

"Honestly, I don't know what to say. I guess . . . I guess my faith just . . . died." I unintentionally formed a fist, tension settling in the pit of my stomach. "I started to doubt everything, and there were so many days where I couldn't shake off feeling so helpless. Whenever I opened the Bible, I felt stupid. Whenever I got on my knees and prayed, I felt unheard. It was like God chose me in particular to feel pain, and I got tired of waiting for Him to prove me wrong. And wait, I know I sound selfish, and I'm sorry, but just know that I don't feel any bitterness towards Him at all. At least, not anymore. He just . . . I don't know. I guess I allowed myself to forget what I should have remembered." I furrowed my brows. "I forgot how to have patience and I just -" I forgot how to trust Him.

All of a sudden, I felt a hand envelop mine; I didn't even catch Forrest coming closer to me. I relaxed, no longer making a fist, and stayed still, feeling heavy and light at the same time. I couldn't recall the last time I thought about God so much. Green eyes - flaring with concern - stared into me; he gave my hand a little squeeze. A part of me expected him to start preaching, but instead, he said, "Why don't you come with me to church tomorrow?" I pressed my lips together, unsure. "It'll only last an hour. After that, you never have to go again if you don't want to. I just think . . . you've been missing something pretty important, and it's time to give yourself a chance to find it again."

"But . . . I don't think . . ." I had a hard time trying to convey my worries. It's been too long. Besides, how much difference could one service make? Could I really go back to believing?

As if Forrest could see why I was hesitating, he said, "It's not too late, June. Besides, that's the beauty of faith. It may weaken, but I don't think it ever dies. You can let Him in if you choose to."

In that moment, how could I look at him and decline what he was offering me?

I heaved a sigh and nodded.

***

Fifteen minutes later, it was time to eat, and I couldn't express my gratitude enough. "Forrest, you sweet person," I sighed, "I can't believe you actually did this." The plate of Alfredo pasta in front of me looked heavenly.

He let out a laugh. "You just watched me cook for the past thirty minutes."

"Be quiet," I muttered, but I couldn't help but smile. "But seriously, thanks. I swear, you're not even real." I couldn't understand why he would put so much effort on me. How could someone be so kind? "This is the first time anyone has ever made me dinner like this."

At my words, Forrest gave a tight smile. I could have sworn he felt bad for me. "Well . . . I'm glad that I got to do it. Now, start eating and let me know how it is."

He didn't need to tell me twice. I took the first bite, and -

"Whoa," I let out, surprised at just how pleasant it tasted. I knew talking with a mouth full of food wasn't proper, so I had to hold back my praise.

I had ordered Alfredo pasta at certain restaurants before, and as great as they were, I was enjoying Forrest's own a lot more. It was creamy . . . buttery . . . savory. Perfect was perhaps an understatement.

I looked over at Forrest, and I caught him wearing a smile, amusement in his features. "So, on a scale of one to ten, how horrible is it?" he joked.

"Eleven or maybe even twelve," I retorted and scrunched my face in mock-disgust. "How dare you feed me this!"

The smile dropped from his lips, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Really? Oh, I feel so ashamed," he said with an expression so serious that it could have fooled me. "I guess it's time to pack my bags, change my name, and move to -"

"Okay," I interjected, wanting to snort, "Knock it off, you loser. Your cooking is amazing, and I mean it." I took another bite, my satisfaction escalating.

Forrest started to eat too. "Oh, you're right," he remarked, "It is amazing."

Almost rolling my eyes, I couldn't bother to say anything more. I just wanted to diminish my hunger.

A soft song glided around us - possibly the last song of the album.

And the dust is no longer in the air - no, it has settled and I'm left alone. Who knew the truth would hurt so bad? I see it all now. I feel it all now.

And God, it shouldn't hurt this bad.

Not drunk in love anymore. Not going back to you anymore. Sober has never felt so sad. I see it all now. I feel it all now. Why don't you miss what we had?

I cleared my throat. It was very quiet - maybe too quiet. It wasn't uncomfortable, but a part of me wanted a conversation. "Forrest," I said the first thing I thought of, "can you tell me something about yourself?"

He raised a brow, slightly amused. "Why do I suddenly feel like I'm at a job interview?"

I frowned. "Ha ha. But I'm serious - I don't know a lot about you. Tell me anything."

"Okay, sure, but I'll only say something if you do the same. Deal?"

"I mean, I guess." I tried to think of what to tell him. "You can start."

Forrest got a napkin and wiped his mouth before saying, "My favorite color is blue." My eyes widened. "For some reason, people are constantly under the assumption that it's green."

"Really?" I had to admit that I was one of those people. With his name and eye color, who could blame me? "Why blue?"

"Well, I'm not sure. It just is. I know it's supposed to represent sadness, but for me, it's pretty . . . calming. Anyway, what about you?"

"Maroon. Oh, that reminds me - I still have your hoodie." I thought about where I left it. "It's somewhere in my room. You can get it later."

"That's fine. You can keep it a little bit longer if you want. But anyway, you still have to tell me something else about yourself."

But wasn't the hoodie his favorite? Instead of questioning him, I said, "All right. I, uh . . ." What could he possibly want to know? "I'm left-handed."

Immediately, Forrest nodded as if he was giving approval. "Very impressive. If this was a job interview, I'd definitely hire you."

This time, I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes. "Whatever. I'm boring, okay?"

"Nah, I have to disagree. You just fail to see how extraordinary you are."

I paused, setting down my fork. "Forrest," I gave him a look, "is there ever a time you're not excessively sweet?"

"Excessively sweet? Hey, I'm just really honest." He took a sip of his water. "Anyway, let's continue. When I . . . was eight - maybe nine - years old, I had this dream of becoming a superhero. I couldn't figure out what powers I wanted, but that didn't matter. I got a red masquerade mask and cut off the feathers - I couldn't remove the glitter, though. And I tried to find a cape, but I only had a blanket. Regardless, I was so confident, walking around in those two things." Nostalgia flickered in his eyes. "I can't forget the way my dad looked at me. He said that he knew I was going to be a great superhero and make him really proud someday. But, uh, anyway -" he pressed his lips together, like he said too much already.

"That's amazing," I blurted out, warmth flooding my chest, "And amazing isn't even a good-enough word. Thank you for sharing that."

"No problem," Forrest laughed, sheepish, "I still have the mask and cape in a box somewhere. But hey, your turn. What's one of your childhood memories?"

The smile fell from my face fast. In a flashing wave, faces and voices whipped around my mind, and I was left with a lingering bitterness. I used to have dreams too, but they weren't about superheroes.

"When I was five," I looked down at my food, absentmindedly moving my fork around, "My parents got divorced. Apparently, my mom found someone else, and she left me with my dad. At first, things were okay, but then . . . he got tired of seeing me. Um, I have, like, two pictures of her somewhere, and even I can tell that I resemble her a lot. I have her eyes and her . . . smile." I cleared my throat. "But that's not the memory. When I was seven, my dad and I got in his car, and he drove here. He didn't say much during the ride, but I know at one point, he looked at me and smiled. And he said I'm sorry. I remember being so confused. I didn't know what was happening, but at the time, I didn't think it was a big deal. Neither did my grandparents. All my dad told them was that he needed them to watch me for the day. And then he was gone."

"June," I couldn't look up, "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry."

His apology couldn't do anything about it now, but I didn't want to reject his sympathy. The story wasn't over yet, but I was quickly losing my appetite, and I didn't think I was capable of uttering any more words. Besides, I didn't want Forrest to know the rest.

I didn't want him to know that after my dad took off, he went back home and swallowed all the pills he could find. He had stumbled around that lonely house, wasted, before collapsing in my bedroom. He was found on the floor, holding one of my dresses. It was a white one with lace, but it hadn't been my favorite. Rather, it was the last dress my mom bought for me.

God knew what was whirling through my father's head that day. He hadn't written any note, but the two years I spent with him told me enough. Although the memories were all blurry, I know he tried. He tried to keep it together for my sake, but at the end of the day, despite the fact that I was his daughter - someone he was supposed to take care of, no matter what - I was still a hurtful reminder of a broken promise. Instead of being enough to make him stay, I was enough to push him over the edge.

It took me years to understand, and even longer to forgive. Other than my mother's eyes and smile, I inherited my father's hair color and suicidal urges. If I recalled correctly, the last thing I told him was see you later.

And twelve years later, I almost did.