I sat in the dimly lit car, the soft hum of the engine the only sound keeping the silence alive. Slavvy's eyes were glued to the road, jaw tight with concentration. The faint glow from the dashboard accentuated his sharp, chiseled features, sending a shiver crawling down my spine.
"What's your name?" His voice was low, deep, and carried an edge that made my stomach twist.
"Testimony," I murmured, almost inaudible.
"Testimony Broncos?" he asked, glancing at me briefly, a hint of amusement in his gaze. I nodded, wary.
"Yeah… how do you know my surname?" I asked, unease curling in my chest.
"I know everything about you, Testimony." His eyes flickered with an almost playful light. "You should've been in detention. But you didn't show up. Why?"
I swallowed hard, feeling fear slithering up my spine. "I… I forgot my book at home," I admitted, voice shaky.
"Didn't you do your homework?" His eyes narrowed, the question sharp as a knife.
"I did… but somehow the book stayed at home, and she gave me detention," I explained, my vulnerability prickling the edges of my words.
"And why did you skip detention?" His voice softened slightly, but still carried a low, dangerous weight.
I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "I… I didn't have the courage to face anyone after what happened at lunch," I confessed, cheeks burning.
For a moment, his expression softened. He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, gentle enough to make my heart stutter. "I understand… but you should learn to fight for yourself," he murmured, almost as if he were sharing a secret.
Unease prickled within me. Was he genuinely trying to help, or was this a game?
The car slowed as we approached my house. He switched off the engine and turned to face me. "We're here," he said, a casual cheerfulness coloring his tone.
"Uh… thank you for the ride," I said, reaching to unbuckle my seatbelt, reminding myself of safety first.
"My pleasure," he replied, his British accent smooth, unexpected, and somehow charming.
"I… I gotta go," I said, swinging the door open.
"Uh… can I get your number before you leave?" he asked politely, eyes locked on mine.
I blinked, a smile tugging at my lips. "Uh… sure." I handed him my number, doing it without hesitation.
"Here you go," I said, returning his phone.
"Thanks," he responded with a small, almost shy smile.
"Bye." I stepped out, shutting the door softly behind me and trudged toward my house.
Inside, Dad lounged on the couch, his eyes glued to the TV.
"I'm back," I called, closing the door.
"Hey, honey. How was school?" he asked, his tone polite.
"It was okay," I replied simply, retreating to my room, closing the door behind me, and collapsing onto my bed. What a long day.
I rested my head on my pillow, letting the events of the day swirl in my mind. My eyes wandered to the floor, where my hospitality book lay. Great—it must have slipped from my bag earlier. I picked it up and tossed it onto my desk before heading to the bathroom.
After a warm shower, I changed into my pajamas. Seven o'clock. Early enough to relax for the evening.
I padded back downstairs and took a seat next to Ashly.
"You smell amazing," she remarked with a bright grin.
"Thanks," I replied softly, lowering my voice.
"We're back!" Mike announced, striding in with Michael carrying a soccer ball, their energy filling the room.
"Great. Now go wash up and join us for dinner," Mrs. Broncos called out, clapping her hands to summon them to hurry.
"Honey, Ashly and Testimony, food's ready," she added.
"Coming," Ashly and Dad said simultaneously, laughing. Mrs. Broncos shook her head, amused.
"Testimony, can you help me prepare the table?" Mrs. Broncos requested kindly. I immediately followed her, helping set the dishes.
Dinner was laid out in a colorful spread. I served myself rice, chicken soup, bread, and pumpkin while the family picked at other eccentric items on the table.
God bless this food in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen, I prayed silently. No one else seemed inclined to bow their heads.
"Michael, your mother told me you got into a fight at school. Why?" Dad asked, voice stern.
"Mom?" Michael turned toward her, irritation in his eyes.
"He's your father, Michael. I had to tell him," Mrs. Broncos defended, voice firm.
Michael rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed.
"Why did you pick a fight? Do you even know who the boy is?" Dad pressed.
"The president's son—I know that—but he's so full of himself—" Michael started.
"Eyy—" Mum warned.
"That doesn't give you the right to provoke him," Dad argued.
"He rudely bumped into me and didn't apologize! What was I supposed to do?" Michael defended, frustration cutting through his tone.
"Walk away," Dad instructed.
"And let people with power run over us? I'm not their puppet," Michael snapped.
"Watch your language, young man," Dad said sharply.
"Michael, go upstairs now," Mum intervened, exasperation in her voice.
Couldn't they wait until after dinner?
"Gladly," he muttered, pissed, and stormed out of the dining room.
"You should ask first before pointing fingers," Mike muttered angrily, leaving the table as well.
"I'll be upstairs," Ashly excused herself.
"Thanks for dinner," I murmured, standing. He had to ruin the dinner, didn't he? Couldn't he confront his son at a different time, when the family wasn't all seated? Immature parents.
I closed the door behind me and opened my Bible. Reading the Word of God gave me peace and hope amid all the confusion and hurt.
I flipped to Matthew, chapter 11: "Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." I highlighted the verse and copied it into my notebook, adding a short prayer.
I ended the day with God.
Minutes slipped by, and I glanced at the clock—it was eleven o'clock. Time to sleep.
I climbed into bed, but before I could shut my eyes, my phone buzzed.
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