“Hey QB, you clean up nice.” Smith’s grin was dialed to its usual eleven out of ten. “Appreciate it, brother.”

  “Yeah uh, no problem,” I offered. I clambered into the gigantic Suburban for the second time in as many days.

  “Glad the weather held off for today. Wonder if we’ll get a white Christmas this year. Seems like it could be the year for it.”

  “Could be.”

  “I like the dry air most of the time, but if it could snow on Thanksgiving and Christmas, I’d be a happy man. Well, happier. I’ve found plenty of joy in this life already. And when I am a little down, Chrissy perks me right back up. You got anyone like that?” Smith’s green eyes flitted over to me.

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to introduce you to some of the ladies. If you come to the Christmas Eve Pageant, might be able to introduce you. Eh?” Smith’s smile didn’t waver.

  “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

  Something in my face must have said otherwise. “We don’t have to. Just would be happy to have you along even. Slow as you please.”

  The drive to Smith’s place was short, but it was galling how much nicer his neighborhood was. Townhouses, apartments, and small standalone houses gave way to much more modern homes. The sidewalks went from cracked and pitched affairs to something much more walkable. Trees shaded everything and it was verdant in a way that my area would never be. The vehicles parked in driveways or along the curbs were all much nicer and newer than most of the cars at my complex. I could almost feel the relative opulence in the air.

  “Here we are,” Smith said, pulling up into the driveway. His cream colored house was all suburban grandeur- two large floors perched over a basement. Gaudy windows leered down at me, envisaged by wild and variegated eaves. The maw of his garage yawned wide, swallowing the seemingly dwarfed Suburban. The only less than gargantuan part about the property was the maple tree out front, of a decent size, but no money would make it grow any faster.

  As Smith killed the engine, the garage door began its descent- sealing me in for good. No turning back now. I opened the door, tamping down my fears and trepidation as best I could. We had parked next to an immaculately white Lexus. It had a few bumper stickers, mostly revolving around Harry Potter. The garage however, was otherwise a shrine to rugged masculinity. A pristine tool chest, taller than the Suburban, loomed amidst all manner of table tools. Shelves and racks occupied much of the wall space, festooned with various tools, nails, screws, nuts, bolts, socket sets, and myriad other items. Trying not to gawk too much, I followed Smith to the door into the house proper.

  “Chrissy runs a tight ship, so don't let her see you tracking in any mud.” Smith pointed at a boot brush next to the door. He kicked his boots through the brush a few times, despite a lack of any actual filth on them that I could tell. After I gave a cursory kick through the brushes, Smith nodded, satisfied.

  As he opened the door, I was immediately struck by two things- the first was the overwhelming aroma of home cooking. After a diet mostly consisting of pizza delivery and gas station food, it was almost heavenly (yes, yes I know) to take in. My mouth immediately watered. The second was the sheer number of kitschy home decor items. The place looked like a showroom for the entirety of Etsy. Wholesome and rustic wall pieces shared real estate with landscape paintings and Harry Potter paraphernalia. The variations alone of “God bless this house” I saw were more than staggering. If the garage was an overindulgent shrine to suburban individualism, then this was a garish monument to domestic consumerism.

  This all only served to increasingly worry me. It was hard to believe that people who lived like this wanted anything to do with me. Trying to keep my guard up was difficult though, with the smell of delicious cooking. At least they weren’t trying to poison me. Or so I hoped. It was hard not to feel a sense of discomfort, an alien sense of unbelonging.

  “This is the living room. Pretty obvious with the TV.” Smith gestured at the television (far nicer than mine) which was showing some remodeling program on HGTV. “You ever wanna catch a hockey game, just hit me up. Got Center Ice, so we can watch just about any game. Chrissy makes some mean wings. Got a lot of zip to them.” In the corner was a grandiose Christmas tree. It was hung with sparkling glass ornaments, all arranged to have a picturesquely pleasing number. Lustrous silver and gold garlands criss-crossed in their trek up the boughs of the spruce. Silvery white light glinted in myriad on the sparkling surface of the ornaments. Atop it, an angel perched in silent contemplation, eyes closed in reverence. Meticulously wrapped presents resided beneath the tree, the wrapping crisp and perfect, with ribbon wrapping on each, complete with a hand-tied bow. It was even complete with a faux fireplace and a sedate Irish setter curled beneath it. The dog looked up at me curiously before deciding its comfort was more important than my novelty.

  In the hallway just off the living room he pointed up a flight of stairs. “Not too much up there right now. Chrissy does get to do her painting up there where it’s quiet. One day though, our kids are going to be running up and down those stairs. I dream of that day, brother.” He shot me a picture perfect smile, all teeth and warmth. “You ever think about that? Kids?”

  I bit off the snap answer about how I dream about having my bills all paid for. “I dunno man, I haven't really had the chance to think about it.”

  “Hey, no sweat QB. You're still young. Plenty of time to get settled down still. You got anybody you're seeing?” The smile hadn't altered, but his eyes hardened in slight concern.

  “No time,” I offered. “All work you know.”

  “Huh, heard you and Tracy might have been-”

  “Nah man, nothing like that. Matt's just been stirring the sh- the pot.” I actually bit off the profanity, feeling a bit like how I would around my grandparents, a skein of dishonest grease easing the facade of wholesome speech.

  If Smith noticed the discomfort, he gave no sign. “I think you could be good for her, brother. She’s had a rough go of things. Maybe once you get comfortable with going to church again, you could invite her along.” The idea of getting Tracy to go in a church was completely ludicrous (except maybe in the pursuit of petty vandalism). He actually meant it though. There was no guile in those green eyes, merely the self-assuredness of total earnesty.

  “Yeah, maybe I'll give it a shot. She's not really the type though.” I shrugged.

  “The Lord will give you the strength you need.” Smith gave me a slap on the shoulder. “And for her, you might need a whole heck of a lot, eh?”

  “Yeah, she's spirited,” I agreed weakly. “I hope you get to have a lovely family. Lots of babies.”

  “Lots of babies, brother, that’s the goal.” Smith gestured at the end of the hallway. “Master bed that way. Can’t let you in there Jeremy. That’s just for Chrissy and me.” He led me back through the living room and into the adjoining dining room. “Here’s where we’re eating. This table is old, Jeremy. Solid oak, came from back east before my ancestors moved out here. Can’t wait to have kids around it, but I’m very pleased to have you at my table today.”

  The dining room was a bit more grandparent chic. The decor was clearly passed down to Smith. There was fine dishware in an old glass paned cabinet and shelves laden with porcelain figurines, of all sorts of colors and styles. There were actual tinstyle photos in frames. The gruff men in the photos bore more than a passing resemblance to Smith- same square jaw with the broad ruddy cheeks. If stuffy looking old white men with muttonchops signified generational wealth, then Smith was indeed loaded. Even the tablecloth was some overwrought affair, with more lace than tablecloth. It all had the feeling of slight must and decay. It made me itch inside.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “And beyond this is the wife's domain. She lets me cook sometimes.” Smith gave a good-natured wink. “Smells good doesn't it? Chrissy really wanted to impress you. I gotta thank you, brother, we'll get to eat good tonight.” He then called into the kitchen: “Chrissy! Jeremy is here!”

  “One second!” a feminine voice replied from the kitchen. And then, Chrissy stepped out. She was an absolute angel, a balm for the eyes. I tried not to goggle. I most definitely failed. Her face was creased with a warm smile that made her brown eyes sparkle. Luscious wavy auburn hair tumbled down to brush her shoulders and the gorgeous aquamarine dress nestled beneath a “kiss the chef” apron. Her cheeks were speckled with freckles, lending her an earthy air. And while the dress was loose, it failed to hide her figure completely. And what I could see was wonderful. The apron ties only gave proof to her narrow waist and wide hips.

  “I uh…” I fumbled for a moment before recovering “Hi, I'm Jeremy.” She already knew that, of course, stupid. My brain felt like it was running about three steps behind, trying to swim through thick and cottony mental fog. I held out a hand for a handshake. I don’t know why.

  “Oh okay,” she giggled. It sounded melodic, ringing. She took my hand in a surprisingly firm grip. It felt warm and right, reassuring.

  I wanted her soul.

  The desire had leapt into my head, an incessant craving. It was like it had been thought for me, injected into my conscious, rather than me thinking it. The goal of money trickled away, sand down a grate, replaced by this white-hot need. My mind raced, trying to think of some conceivable universe where she would yield to my Implement. But the expansive gulf between what was and what I wanted was insurmountable, beyond the faintest shred of possibility.

  My entire ego collapsed in dilapidated misery. In just a few short moments, my soul had raced the boundaries of highest hope and deepest despair. And I was still holding her hand in what must have been the most awkward and embarrassingly long handshake of either of our lives. Giving it a cursory shake I managed to say “A pleasure to meet you. Smith didn't tell me how lovely you are.” Lovely? In front of her husband?

  Smith just gave his easygoing grin. “Yep, my Chrissy is the best little lady I could ever ask for. He gave her a gigantic hug, pecking a kiss on her perfect cheek.

  “Smith, not in front of the company,” Chrissy laughed, giggling as he retaliated with another smooch. “My name’s Christina,” she offered to me, still under assault from Smith’s lips. “But only my mother calls me that, everyone else calls me Chrissy. It’s wonderful to have you over. Smith has told me so much about you.”

  Why? What was Smith so excited about? I was a glum retail slave, same as anyone else there (except Smith). Singling me out was making me feel cagier and cagier. But the way he talked about me, the way Chrissy just gushed about it, it didn’t feel like something recent, like something occurring since joining Wayward Souls. That made it feel even more suspicious. Not just of Smith, but also of Wayward Souls itself. I was beginning to feel like the proverbial pawn in a chess match, and I couldn’t really say I appreciated the feeling.

  “Hopefully nothing bad,” I said with a nervous laugh.

  “Nothing bad about ya, QB,” Smith said, finally letting his wife go. “We’re gonna treat you to some of the best home cooking you’ll ever have.”

  “Oh stop,” Chrissy admonished. “He’s overselling it.”

  “You’re just being modest,” Smith countered.

  I felt ill listening to their marital bliss.

  “Well let’s let the lady work.” Smith gave her another exaggerated smooch. He clapped a hand to my shoulder and led me back out to the living room. “Anything you wanna watch?” He brought up the guide, and I was treated to the ennui of browsing a television with nothing good on. Smith continue to rambled small talk at me, about interesting customers at work, updates on coworkers’ lives, and his holiday plans.

  The Irish setter finally worked his way to standing, giving a dramatic stretch before padding over to me. He looked up at me with deep brown eyes. I looked up to Smith. “That’s Russ, he doesn’t bite or nothing. He runs the place when I’m gone.” Smith finally settled on the same remodeling show as before. Some newlyweds were still struggling to find their dream beach bungalow in the Outer Banks. As a vacation home of course. I gave Russ a good scratching behind the ears, offering answers as amiably as I could when Smith asked, and halfheartedly agreeing as he nattered tales of the place we somehow both worked at.

  I was wondering how many other “interesting stories” Smith had to tell (which tended to involve some kind of charming bigotry from an elderly woman) when Chrissy’s voice chimed from the kitchen “It’s ready!”

  “All right bud, let's dig in!” Smith practically bounded to his feet, the travails of the elderly couple searching for the perfect retirement in the Florida Keys quickly forgotten. I rose a bit less enthusiastically. It was with trepidation for the dinner yet longing to hear Chrissy again that left me disjointed as I approached the dining room.

  The spread was immaculate. It was immediately clear it was too much. The shepherd’s pie was picturesque on each plate, the potatoes just a little golden brown. The vegetables peeked out in vibrant color. Asparagus spears were positioned next to it, damming the gravy slightly. A large slice of homemade bread softened a large part of butter atop it. Next to each dish was a bowl of tomato soup, garnished with basil. My mouth flooded in anticipation. “Wow, it looks amazing,” I breathed. “All this for me?”

  “Well, we get to enjoy it too,” Smith chuckled. “But we like to treat company when they're over. Hope you brought an appetite- a little bird told me Chrissy might have pulled out her mom's blueberry crumble recipe. Closest thing to heaven that you can eat, I can tell you that.”

  We seated ourselves, Smith and Chrissy on one side, me facing them on the other. I lifted a spoon to indulge in the soup first, but Smith gently chided me. “Under this roof, we give thanks for our wonderful food.”

  So I found myself holding Smith's hand in my right, and Chrissy's in my left. I was awkwardly leaning across the table. Smith rumbled out a prayer. It didn't have the trite mechanical tone of ritualism- if nothing else, his words were earnest. “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for providing this meal for us. For bringing Jeremy into our lives, to allow us the chance to show him your love and the love of Jesus Christ. May you plant the seed of love in his heart, that he may come to know you fully and completely. In Christ's name we pray. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Chrissy echoed solemnly.

  “Amen,” I repeated uncertainly.

  “Prepare to be amazed. Chrissy is the best cook I know. Don't tell my mom i said that,” Smith said with a conspiratorial wink.

  My dreams of savoring the meal were quickly dashed as the couple kept the patter of small talk going. “It won’t be too stressful. Central United is very welcoming to all newcomers,” Smith informed me, after swallowing some of the asparagus. The food itself was really, really good. It hit the spot even more than I dared hope, something delicious and homecooked. I resolved that if I couldn’t ensnare Chrissy, then at least my next soul would be one that could cook.

  “Well if they’re as welcoming as you guys, I’m in for treat,” I said with a bit of a laugh.

  “It’s always a treat to see someone new welcomed into Christ’s loving arms,” Chrissy said happily. “When Smith first invited me, I was worried I’d stick out, but the ladies there made me into one of them almost immediately. There’s so many social functions you can be invited to. The guys go on fishing trips in the summer. I think they do paintball… or laser tag?” She looked to Smith.

  “We even do softball in the spring. You still got an arm, QB?”

  I’d never had an “arm” in any regard. “It’s been a few years. Mostly get my exercise ringing up groceries nowadays.”

  “Lot of bowling too,” Smith added. “We’re a community there. When someone’s sick, we bring them food. When someone has a medical emergency, we pitch in as best we can. We look out for each other.”

  There was not going to be a more golden opportunity than this. I squashed my awkward nervousness down, as far as I possibly could. “I’ve been looking for ways to pay it forward. I had an organization help me with my utilities this month. Free of charge. I’ve been trying to think of ways to make things better since then. I thought maybe of doing my own community outreach. Offer the same kinds of things. You know, the whole ‘from each according to his ability’ thing? Is that a religious thing?”

  Smith’s features were a bit flat. “That is not Scripture, no.”

  “Oh, it sounds like something that would be. But you know what I mean, helping the poor?”

  “Oh definitely, that sounds like such an admirable goal!” Chrissy effused. “What was the name of this organization? Maybe we’ve worked with them before.”

  Oh crap. What if they were familiar with Wayward Souls?

  “Uh… Let’s see, their name was…” I floundered hard. I didn’t have anything convincing. And any lie would be easily seen through. Damn Google. “Uh… Wayward Souls.”