We were sitting on the steps of the church after the youth group meeting had let out. I went because my therapist recommended getting closer to God as a way to overcome my depression and rage. Jen went because her father was the pastor.

She looked at me and asked, “What’d you think think of the meeting today?”

I shrugged, “Alright I guess. I just don’t know if I believe all the shit. Eh sorry, stuff.” I blushed a bit because I felt embarrassed showing my rough side in her presence. She knew I had some issues, though we never talked about it.

“Well that’s nothing to be embarrassed about, I have my doubts, too sometimes,” she said and smiled encouragingly.

“How am I supposed to tell an angel that I don’t believe in God?” I blushed again.

With a little laugh she said, “I’m not an angel Matt, don’t worry.”

I looked at her, her blonde hair like a halo framing her face, her Sunday dress hanging elegantly over shoulders, and her delicate fingers laced over her knees.

“Are you sure about that?”