Credence

by Penelope Douglas

“It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.” -Frederick Douglass

Just the sounds of the wind and the falls and the thunder.

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.” My

“The second is to learn about yourself.” She touches the Heinz. “Your first crush has been crushed. You’re sad, but most of all, you’re angry. Angry enough to not let it happen again,” she explains. “To not give yourself over so much this time. To not give up your power to be his booty call at midnight and there waiting whenever he decides to show up.”

“Number two is where you finally learn what you’re capable of,” she continues, tucking a loose strand from her ponytail behind her ear. “You start getting demanding. You grow bold, not afraid to start calling some shots. You’re also not afraid to be greedier in the bedroom, because it’s about what you want and not what he wants. Number two is to be used. In a way.”

“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 medium. 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.”

Something about this house—these people—lend credence every day to what I always knew I needed. Not sex. Not a guy. Just a place. Somewhere or someone to feel like home.

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.

Let’s not be friends. Let’s fight and laugh and make babies someday and go insane, because I’m fucking in love with you.

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

Walking around the tire, he steps toward me. “My home is where you are,” he says quietly.