The Conditions of Will

by Jessa Hastings

“That God that my mom thinks she serves—he’s so much smaller than who I think the real one is. The real one—to me, he’s everywhere, in everything. And sure, maybe he speaks through the Bible. But also maybe he speaks through Narnia, and Harry Potter despite J. K. Rowling lately, and the trees, and science, and the stars, and black holes and the ocean and the way the sky looks sometimes, and you can feel it in your chest.”

“And I think he loves everyone, and he wants everyone to be okay, and I think almost everyone who is, like, earnestly seeking God—people aren’t seeking that out of ego; they’re looking for the meaning of life and they’re looking beyond themselves for it—and, I mean, I don’t know anything, except that I think God is the kind of guy who when someone dies, he’ll sit there and sift through every heartfelt thought, every drunken prayer, every desperate plea for help, every Mumford & Sons song that you’ve sung to look for a hint of a confession that you believe in him.”

“Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I stare up at the big arch, which is my favorite part, I think. “Even though it’s broken?” “Yep,” he says quietly, and he’s looking just at me.

“Sam Penny, do you have romantic feelings for me?” He thinks for a second, and the way his mouth is pursed makes me nervous for the splittest of seconds. “My feelings for you are…strictly romantic.” Then he adds as an afterthought—“And often sexual.”

“Have mine,” he tells me, offering me his mug, but I don’t notice what’s in his hands because I’m distracted (always distracted) by his face. “Your what?” “I meant my coffee, but…” He smiles. “You can have my—fuck—have whatever you want. Have everything.”

“I haven’t felt anything for anyone for nine years.” Sam swallows. “I was clean…of everything I was addicted to. I was clean—and then I met you.”

“I’m not addicted to you, I’m in love with you,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t need you, I want you. And I want you because I know you.” He searches for my eyes. “I

And I think to myself, wouldn’t it be so lovely if we viewed ourselves through the same lens as the people who love us?

“Okay, so we’re going to do long distance then, or—?” “Fuck no,” he says with some conviction. “Fuck long distance.” I breathe out, mildly exasperated. “What then?” “Well, I’m going to come to London. Obviously.”