Take a Chance on Me(57)

But they’d never looked hard at the golden boy to see the truth. Just found it easier to point to the rich kid.

Gibs’s face softened. “As unjust as their accusations were, God used them to remind me that Nelda was right—no man is right before Him. I’m not saying that I—or you—didn’t get a bum rap. But the Bible says that if we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. God sees your heart, Jensen, and He knows the truth. And yes, that thought should cripple you. I know it did me.”

Jensen glanced at his unfinished sandwich, then at the time. Tried not to think of how many nights he woke, shaking, sweating, a scream on his lips. How he sat on the deck, waiting for the sunrise.

“Now, some people get angry that they even need to ask for forgiveness. Especially for being human, for making mistakes. They go around doing community service, trying to make it right.”

“I was sentenced to community service,” Jensen said, but Gibs rolled over him.

“But here’s an even better truth: God knows you can’t make it right. None of it. But He can. The day I took a good look at my sins—my real sins—was the day I discovered 1 John 1:9. ‘But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness.’”

“I’m not wicked.”

“Jensen, you’ve spent three years lying low, trying to make everything right. But you can’t redeem yourself. You can’t make yourself and your life whole again. God can.”

Maybe the old man was right—it was a bad idea to get beat at checkers over lunch. Better to face Claire. At least she didn’t make him want to hit something, hard.

No, wait . . . yes, she did.

Jensen looked away.

“Has it occurred to you that God might be trying to get your attention? He longs for your heart more than your good acts.”

“He can’t have my heart. Not after what He did to my life.”

“It seems to me that you are doing to God exactly what the town is doing to you. Unfair blaming.”

Jensen picked up his sandwich, considered it, then wrapped it up in the paper.

“The longer you keep walking in anger toward God and your lot in life, the longer you will stay broken.”

“I’m not broken, old man. It’s just that . . . I’m tired of feeling like I’ll never escape that one mistake.”

Gibson leaned back against his pillows. Met Jensen’s eyes.

“Okay, fine. I know I’m not perfect either. But I’m trying—”

“No one is doubting that.”

“Then why the sermon?”

“Why the checkers?” Gibs said softly.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I want . . .” Oh, none of it made sense. “Forget it.”

“For a guy who doesn’t think he needs forgiveness, you’re certainly trying hard to earn it. Maybe you start with an apology.”

Jensen got up. Grabbed his sandwich. Ground his jaw so tight he thought his molars might dissolve.

“You can’t walk around with a smile plastered on your face when there’s so much debris inside. It’s going to come out, and someone is going to get hurt.” Gibs’s eyes darkened, something of the old Marine in them. “Someone like my granddaughter.”

The threat felt like a punch to the throat, quick and sharp. “I would never hurt Claire. You don’t know anything, old man.”

Jensen turned, about to stalk out, but stopped and rounded on Gibs. “The minute Felicity died in my arms, her blood on my hands—the minute this town stopped listening and started pointing fingers—they silenced any apology they might get. Of course I was sorry! In so many ways, you can’t begin to count. But when they blamed me, I had to start defending myself. I couldn’t turn around and be sorry or they would have crucified me.” His voice trembled, but he didn’t care. Nor did he care that his entire body felt like he might indeed crumble, his eyes burning with what felt disgustingly like tears. “This town stole my right to grieve.”

He swallowed. Drew in a long breath. “You try killing the woman you loved and see how you sleep at night. See how you look at yourself in the mirror. All you want to do is run, pretend you aren’t the person you see. But I can’t, can I? Trust me, it’s much easier to be angry.” Jensen stormed from the room, down the hall, and into his truck.

Sat there in the heat of the day, sweat rolling down his back.

If they wanted to blame him for a crime, wanted a reason to put him in jail, maybe he’d give them one.





IF JENSEN DIDN’T WANT HER to eavesdrop, then he should stop visiting her grandfather. Or shouting. Claire could have heard him in the next county, maybe even in Wisconsin.