“I’m not. Let me walk you in.” Noah stalks in before I can respond. He’s slow going up the circular staircase, sort of like he expects...

“I am allowed to be here,” I say, holding the canvas like a shield. “No one’s going to shoot.”

“All the same,” he answers.

Even though Hunter gave me the key, I creep up the circular staircase like I’m a burglar on the prowl. Reminiscent of how I had skulked against the lockers the night I went after Noah.

“Have you told your dad you don’t need the bail money?” mutters Noah. “Because we might need it.”

I shush him. Now that would be irony, me needing the money because I’m breaking in. I also like that Noah’s willing to go to jail with and for me.

We reach the top of the stairs, and the hundreds of Christmas lights illuminate the room. On the far side of the room, Hunter directs his attention to us. Noah splays his arms in front of me like he’s willing to take the bullet.

“Good morning, Echo,” Hunter says.

I touch Noah’s back to let him know that it’s okay, and he eases to the side. My footsteps against the subflooring sound loud as I walk to my spot and place the canvas on the easel. With it in front of me, with everything I need within hands reach, my fingers actually twitch.

This is it. Today I’m painting Aires.

The world around me begins to tunnel, and there’s a familiar voice dancing in the periphery.

“Take care of her,” says Noah. “Because I’ll know if you don’t.”

“Understood,” says a voice that sounds like Hunter.

But it could have belonged to a dream as everything else fades out except for the colors.

Noah

My mom raised us Catholic.

I never considered attending church after my parents died. God and I—we stopped talking. Not that we had many conversations before that, but anything I would have had to say to Him after my parents’ deaths wouldn’t have been fit for divine ears. To be honest, I don’t think God exists. He’s one more make-believe story in the realm of fairy tales.

Parked in the same lot as a few days before, I ignore the house that belongs to my mother’s biological parents. Instead, I lean against the hood of Echo’s car and stare at the church. Echo’s off painting black holes, and I’m trying not to get sucked into one. It’ll be a damned miracle if the two of us survive the next week.

I love her, and she loves me, but I finally understand some of those old-school movies that make Echo cry. Sometimes love isn’t enough. I don’t know if she can wait four years for me to prove I want to be the man she dreams of. Plus, she could be right about me. Maybe I am doing all of this for the wrong reasons.

The architect shit...

Dad loved what he did. Had a smile on his face when he went to work and when he came home. He found beauty in things that other people took for granted. Like this church. He’d appreciate how it was more than it appeared. Except for the bell tower reaching for the sky, the outside is plain brick. Most basilica-style exteriors are simple. The insides are supposed to kick ass because in truth, we all should be shinier on the inside.

At least that’s how Dad explained it.

It’s like Dad understood the mysteries of life because he understood a building. Maybe I’m searching for the same knowledge.

“You’re back.” The priest—fuck it, my uncle—carries reusable shopping bags in each hand. “In case you’re wondering, I’m hearing confession in a few minutes.”

“I wasn’t wondering.”

“Aw.” Looking more human in a white T-shirt and dark pants, he chuckles as he walks past. “But you are. If you come inside, I’ll tell you why your mother named you Noah.”

My eyes flash to his, and he winks. “Figured she wouldn’t tell you. She was the stubborn sort. Give me at least two minutes and I have a feeling you’ll know where the confessional is.”

Not happening. I’m not the one that needs to apologize to God. It’s the other way around.

“It’s a great story!” he calls before he disappears behind the door. “By the way, your mother and I used to talk. Two phone calls a year!”

My body twitches with the need to follow. It’s like I’m a fish caught on a hook. A story involving my mom. One I’ll never have the opportunity to hear from her. Because, as Echo pointed out this morning when she talked about her brother, Mom left, and she’s never returning.

As I climb the concrete stairs for the two towering front wooden doors, I glance up, waiting for the fire and brimstone or good old-fashioned lightning to strike me dead.

The skies remain calm, and I enter the house of the God.

It’s pin-drop quiet and off to the side are rows of unattended votive candles flickering to stay alive. My dad sure as hell had one thing right: the inside of this place is immaculate. The light flowing from the stained-glass windows is like a multibeamed rainbow. Large white columns run on both sides of the center seating, and painted in the domed area over the sanctuary are pictures of the apostles.

My uncle fixes his collar and appears spiritual again in black.

“That’s a fire hazard.” I gesture to the prayer candle area.

That brings him up short. “I can see where you’d feel that way. We’re considering moving to electric candles, but it wouldn’t have the same effect, would it? Now, if you don’t mind, I’m late for work.”

Without another soul but the two of us, my uncle scurries into the confessional and shuts the wooden closet door.

On the ceiling, a painting of Michael the Archangel peers down at me. He’s the warrior of God. The one who’s called when there’s a battle—a lot like the war that’s about to take place the moment I step inside that confessional. Not sure if Michael is on my side or the priest’s, but then I shake my head. Definitely the priest’s. For the past three years, the odds have never been in my favor.

Echo

My hand rushes over the canvas, and I hear a cough behind me. I’ve probably got an audience again, but I don’t care. Aires is missing. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.

He made a promise, and he broke it.

The last thing my brother ever did was break a promise to me.

As the blues fade into a blackish-blue and as that merges into dark as midnight, there’s this undercurrent of rage pushing me forward. My brother lied to me, and I’m mad.

“Echo.” It’s a somewhat familiar voice, but I try to block it out. “Echo.”