The drive back to my house is a crawl, thanks to a slow stream of traffic, jammed with the slick roads and limited visibiity. Daren is quiet beside me and I try to come up with something to say, scrambling for words, but I don't exactly think commenting on how pretty the breaklights look in the low light is a good topic to spark conversation.

"Thank you for driving me," I say, though we're still parked behind a few cars at a stop sign. He glances over at me, has face nearly as dark as the shadows. "You're welcome."

More silence. I've decided Daren Pierce is a boy of few words and probably not apt to making idle conversation. Then again, maybe he's just uncomfortable driving a stranger home after that awkward and invasive event. My hands are still shaking slightly, still feeling Aaron's fingers against my skin.

"Don't keep thinking about it," Daren says suddenly, his eyes still trained on the road. My eyebrows raise in surprise but I don't ask him how he could tell that's what I'm doing. I already put him down as observant.

I wrap my hands under my arms as he turns up the heater. "I don't mean to," I say.

"Think of something else."

I try.

"Have you ever gone inside the Statue of Liberty?"

I don't know where that question came from, surfacing and leaving my mouth, unbidden, but for some reason, my mind grabs onto it, dragging an image of the coppery statue to focus on, tinted blue in the failing light behind her.

He casts me a questioning look as the car finally begins moving again. He doesn't ask why, just simply says, "No, I haven't."

"Ever gone to the top of the Empire State Building?"

"Once, when I was seven."

I go silent, chiding myself for asking such inane quesitons. I'm prying again, sidestepping the bush and easing my way through the branches as a source of distraction. My arms tighten around myself.

In my peripheral vision, I see his eyes flicker to me. "My turn. Have you ever lived anywhere else outside of Upton?"

I stifle my surprise that he's actually engaging in conversation. I really need to stop assuming things about him, especially when he continues to prove those assumptions wrong. "Mostly. I was born in California, but when I was five we moved here."

"That's quite a climate change."

"I hate the heat."

"Why?"

I think about that for a moment and shrug. "It's just too...hot."

He smirked. "Then at least we know its intentions haven't deviated."

"True."

A few moments pass in silence. Then Daren sighs. "A girl named after the season she loves, who likes to sit close to doors."

I tense at that, trying to look nonchalant. "Guess so," I say, though I feel very uncomfortable now. I clamber to switch topics. "Can I ask why-"

"No," he interrupts, moving his right index finger back and forth in a silencing gesture. "It's still my turn. So long as we were on the subject you tried to change, I'm giving you a chance to answer the question you failed to answer yesterday." He glances over appreciatively at me. "Why do you sit by the door?"

I purse my lips. I'm not embarrassed about what I deal with. It's a common problem. I stare back sideways at him. "Precautionary measure," I say. "I feel better closer to the door. I don't like crowds or having to push through an entire class to get out."

Which is true.

"Do you get claustrophobic?"

"It's not really claustrophobic, I'm just an advocate of personal space."

"'An advocate of personal space,'" he repeats.

"Yes. For which the guy back there clearly wasn't respecting," I add in a lower voice and then instantly wish I hadn't.

Daren takes a left.

"Is it my turn yet?" I ask when the silence begins to make me fidgety again.

He shakes his head. "No."

"Why, do you have another question?"

Daren's gaze lingers on me for a moment before flicking back to the road. "Not at the moment."

"Well then, I can't-"

"Wait, yes I do," he intercedes, as we come to another stop sign, about a mile from my home. "You can tell me what your biggest passion is."

"My passion? Like what I love to do?"

"Exactly. What gets you out of your head?"

I don't even have to debate long on the answer before saying, "I like to draw."

"To draw or to draw?"

"I can spend hours on a drawing and don't even realize it has taken hours." Drawing for me, tunes out the world. It's an unwavering connection that strains from my fingers to the paper from the tip of my pencil. Unbreakable.

He nods as the car continues. "Do I take a right up here?"

I nod.

"Since I have done you, oh, two favors now, the first imposed, the second offered, can you do one for me?" he asks, looking over.

I bite my lip and stare at him, refusing to look away. "Maybe."

A shadow of a smile slips over his lips. "Bring some of your drawings tomorrow. And in return, you'll have questioning privilages."

I think about that for a moment, though it's not a hard decision. And a part of me is curious to reveal part of that enigmatic air he exudes, especially if he's offering to me what I doubt he's offered to anyone else. I nod again, just as we come up on my street and I point to my house; a two story building, dark brown roof topped with snow.

"Okay," I say, and stretch out my hand to shake his. It seems stupid and silly but he takes it anyway. I open the car and hop out. "Thanks again," I say, the cold making me shiver.

It's his turn to nod. "I'll see you tomorrow, Snowflake."

He doesn't leave until I'm safely inside, peeking through the drapes to see if he's gone.

Snowflake?

_______________________________________________________________________________

I sleep easier that night. There's no jolting. No sudden learch upright. No grasping the sheets until my knuckles turn their same shade. There's just the falling asleep and irritated buzzing of my alarm clock the next morning that wakes me up.

I pull the sheets back and dress in my church clothes; jeans with no holes and a nice nlue blouse.

I meet Thomas at the base of his stairs, his race car clutched in his hand. He looks up at me as I descend the staircase. "Guess what?" he asks in that bouyant little kid way.

I widen my gaze to mock surprise. "What?"

"We get cake after church today since it's Pastor June and Mark's wedding anniversary."

I smile at his mispronunciation of anniversary, which comes out as anversary and ruffle his soft hair. "Bet you can't wait for that."

He licks his lips for emphasis. "Nope."

The discussion in today's service is on Job, a man who went through a lot after Satan brought afflication on him and God allowed it. Satan thought that, if God were to take away everything good in Job's life, he'd stop trusting God. So God allowed Satan to bring harm to Job but to spare his life, in order to prove Satan wrong.

And Job's suffering began. He endured much, losing land and having his own health imposed upon, until reaching a breaking point, but he still continued to turn to the Lord, regardless of how broken he felt. There were periods he questioned and asked why such things had happened to him, when he expected to die. But ultimately, out of Job's pain came a greater truth and revelation. He didn't need to know the plans God had for him or the reasons behind his suffering and that everything held purpose.

I compare what Job had through then to what I'm attempting to handle now. Mentally looking at the juxtaposition I conclude, obviously, that Job had had it much worse, but maybe comparison isn't the asnwer. It isn't a measure of endurance, I don't think. Humans went through tough things, known as trials, which brought out stronger faith, so long as you keep it during those times.

I wonder then, if there really is such a thing as a breaking point.

After church, Thomas comes out of class, looking elatedly upon the vanilla cake being cut. He's the first in line and after he finishes, looks despondantly back on the remaining fraction of cake. I hand him the rest of mine but before he accepts, Pastor Mark, after already asking dad, calls Thomas over. He plops another slab of cake onto a plate.

I smile at my dad, wearing his good jacket and tan pants. "What?" he asks, taking another bite of his cake. He points the fork at me. "Don't tell your mother."

Thomas finishes off his cake in the car and on the way back, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Bailey.

I look at the name disdainfully, asking myself if I really want to talk. It doesn't make me look good to ignore the call and though I've already forgiven her, I decide that all I want is a break. I'll call her back at home.

Once there, I went into my room and closed the door, throwing myself onto my bed and dialing her number. She picks up on the first ring. "Hey."

"I'm sorry I didn't have your back," she says, cutting straight to the point. "I know you were there for me and I completely blew it. I didn't even know what fully happened until I goaded the story from a few people. I should have been there to knock the guy's teeth out."

I smile, but it turns to a smirk as the memory of his hands around my waist surface. "You're forgiven, though that would have been pretty epic to see."

"Were you okay with Daren bringing you home? Was he at least cordial?" she asks, her tone completely serious, any curiousity she would have held under other circumstances wiped from her voice.

"Yeah, he was fine. Interesting, actually..."

And I tell her. Because Bailey is my best friend and she loves this stuff, as any friend does, so I give her a vague impression of what we had talked about and other topics we'd touched upon. I don't, however, reveal the nickname he gave me; the personal meaning connotated to it feels private, a secret that I don't wish to share.

It isn't a secret,though. But it's still mine.