Credence

by Penelope Douglas

Everyone contemplates suicide at some point, even if it’s just for a minute. And one thing is usually the root cause. Loneliness.

“Lust, learn, and love,” she says, placing the condiments and touching her finger to the ketchup. “My mother said the first boy—or man—is a crush. You think you love them, but what you really love is how they make you feel. It’s not love. It’s lust. Lust for attention. Lust for danger. Lust to feel special.” She looks between us. “You’re needy with number one. Needy for someone to love you.”

“Love.” She snatches the bottle away. “When the lessons of your weakness with number one and your selfishness with number two sink in, and you find a middle ground. When you know who you are and you’re ready to welcome everything he is, and you’re not afraid anymore.” She puts the bottle back in its place. “You still might not have a happy ending, but you’ll engage in a healthy relationship and handle yourself in a way you’re proud of.”

“I wish she was dead.” Noah stares at the floor but then looks up at me. “I wish she was dead, because then I could love her.”

“The notches go all the way to the buckle,” I point out. “I’m flattered, but my waist isn’t that small.” Noah leans in, whispering, “But your wrists are.”

Snowfall isn’t like rainfall. Rain is passion. It’s a scream. It’s my hair sticking to my face as I wrap my arms around him. It’s spontaneous, and it’s loud. Snowfall is like a secret. It’s whispers and firelight and searching for his warmth between the sheets at two a.m. when the rest of the house is asleep. It’s holding him tightly and loving him slowly.

Credence. I’m close enough to read it now. It means “belief as to the truth of something.”