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BECAUSE OF ME
KATIE PEARSON
 CONTENTS

TRIGGER WARNING

1. BECCA
2. DERECK
3. BECCA
4. DERECK
5. BECCA
6. DERECK
7. DERECK
8. BECCA
9. DERECK
10. BECCA
11. DERECK
12. DERECK
13. BECCA
14. BECCA
15. BECCA
16. DERECK
17. DERECK
18. BECCA
19. BECCA
20. DERECK
21. DERECK
22. BECCA
23. BECCA
24. DERECK
25. DERECK
26. BECCA
27. DERECK
28. BECCA
29. BECCA
30. DERECK
31. DERECK
32. BECCA
33. DERECK
34. BECCA
35. DERECK
36. DERECK
37. BECCA
38. BECCA
39. DERECK
40. BECCA
41. BECCA
42. DERECK
43. BECCA
44. BECCA
45. DERECK
46. BECCA
47. DERECK
48. DERECK
49. BECCA

Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is intended for mature audiences and is not recommended for anyone
under eighteen.

Because of Me By Katie Pearson

Copyright © Katie Pearson 2022

All Rights Reserved
First Published in 2022
Pearson, Katie
Because of Me

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or

transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the
publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this
condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this
publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious, and any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover Design: Okay Creations

Formatted by: Pretty In Ink Creations
 TRIGGER WARNING

This book contains heavy themes some may find triggering. If topics
of violence, drug abuse, sexual assault, and rape bother you, this
novel may not be suited for you
 For Justin,

Because the worst part of my day is when your hand leaves mine.
ONE
 BECCA

IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS, and everyone still believes

the lie I’ve been feeding them. They believe I am her, the other
Becca. The persona of myself I pull out and plaster on for others
because she is someone the general populace can approve of.
Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I see her, even feel
her blanketing my skin like a cheap costume on Halloween, but my
eyes give me away.
They’re clouded panic mixed with the illusion of control, like
driving at night without your headlights on.
The restaurant entrance bell dings, pulling my reflection of a girl
I’ll never be from the mirror. I still have fifteen minutes left on my
shift ⸺uniform on or not⸺ which means there’s still a show to
perform. A façade for the audience to be fooled with.
I stuff my jeans and Three Amigo’s uniform shirt into my
backpack, take one last look at my reflection, at the cuffed shorts
my thighs barely fit in to and the form fitting V neck, and walk out
the door.
You don’t need the uniform to hide in plain sight. Just smile.
Pretend you’re one of them.
“Much easier said than done,” I mutter to myself as I walk out of
the bathroom, round the corner, and enter into the reception area of
the dining room. My eyes follow the oil paintings lining the cream
walls till they find what I’m looking for.
 Dereck’s sitting at the large family table in the center of the
room. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and a part of me hopes he won’t.
He brings too much out of me. I’m feeling everything I know I
shouldn’t. A swell in my chest. A quickening of my pulse. A warmth
to my face, and the ever annoying tug of my mouth to want to smile
from ear to ear like some dopey lovesick sack.
Darn him.
All I want to feel is nothing.
When I step up to the waitress station, our eyes connect and I
try not to react as he nods at me. Rather, I slide my order pad into
my back pocket and approach him with caution with a neutral face.
“Amanda isn’t going to be happy about you sitting in my section,
and not hers. Again.”
Dereck looks over my shoulder at his sister who’s cleaning up one
of her larger tables. He runs a hand through his short honey hair till
he reaches the back of his neck and rubs at the muscles there.
I never thought mechanics were sexy. In my head, I used to
picture a middle-aged, beer-gutted, balding man with gambling
debt. Now, I picture Dereck Pemberley. With his tanned skin from
summers spent working shirtless under this blazing Tennessee sun
and teeth Colgate could use for an ad campaign, he paints a much
better picture. Especially if you add in the tattoos he keeps hidden
from view beneath the sleeves of his black work shirt. They’re some
kind of wings that accentuate his defined muscles, and ⸺if his
arms are any indication⸺ hint at a different kind of six pack to get
drunk on underneath the buttons of his uniform.
A hand waves in front of my face. Dereck looks at me with raised
brows and a knowing smirk till my cheeks burn.
“What?” I ask, hoping he won’t call me out.
“I said she knows I can’t resist pestering you, BG.”
A dimple digs into his left cheek.
“Lucky me.” I bite the inside of my cheek to hold my lips in place,
refusing to smile along with him. He’s getting too close to seeing
behind my persona ⸺again⸺ and we haven’t been talking more
than a minute. I whip out my order pad from my back pocket. “Your
usual?”
 “Yeah, but don’t worry about it. I’m waiting on my friends and
my parents to show before I order anything.”
“Oh.” I look to the entrance door like all of them are about to
walk through it any minute. “That’s why you’re not sitting in your
regular spot.”
And why he wasn’t here at lunchtime when he normally comes.
“So, you don’t need anything?” I ask while my thoughts try to
find something to keep me here a few minutes longer.
“Just conversation,” he says with that smile of his. The one that
fills his face in every sense of the term, and makes my tummy turn
to mush.
His eyes are watchful. I can feel them taking me in just as I had
been taking him in. They travel the length of my body more than
once, and because I’m asking for problems, I don’t walk away.
You’ll never do anything about it.
That’s true, but it’s safe and, for the most part, innocent.
“Did you finish your new book?” He asks.
Darn him. A smirk pulls one side of my mouth. With effort, I fight
it off and give him my other Becca smile.
“I did. This morning after I finished mopping.” I try not to bring
books to work, but Randy and his crew were still hanging around
this morning when I woke up. They never let me have the peace to
read, and Charro doesn’t mind as long as I get my work done first
and don’t interrupt his morning telenovelas.
“How many stars did this one get?”
“Four.” My cheeks heat. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re teasing
me,” I say with the hint of a smile. It’s only fair. He caught me
writing in my journal the first week I started here and has used it
more than once to keep me standing around to talk with him.
He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re fun to tease.”
My stomach bears the weight of a boulder. Reminding myself to
breath, I say, “Tease all you want, my book list is vital.”
Dereck leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing
his fingers together. The images on his upper arms come more into
view. I try not to look, so my eyes go to the shamrock logo on the
left side of his chest.
 “I’d dare say the only vital list is a bucket list,” he says. A
challenge in his tone.
“I’ll have to take your word on that one.”
His eyebrows rise till his forehead crinkles. “You don’t have one?”
No. A bucket list would mean I would have time in my life for
small adventures. Time and money. The two things I don’t have the
liberty to spare. I can worry about something as trivial as a bucket
list when I have full custody of Nathan.
“I’m calling your bluff.” My face burns from being so forward with
him, but it’s Dereck. It didn’t take long to realize I’m safe with him.
“I guarantee at your dad’s shop there is a list of all the vehicles that
you need to work on, and what’s wrong with them. Am I right?”
He nods, a lazy smile plastered on his face.
“Seems like a vital list to me.” I quirk my mouth and arch a brow
at him, daring him to fuss with me.
“You got me,” he admits. “But I’m still going to argue that a
bucket list means more to a person than the Shamrock’s daily
docket.”
“Oh? And what is on your bucket list?”
His eyes travel me again, my stomach flipping as he does this.
Dereck’s tongue slips from between his lips, wetting them.
“I haven’t written one myself, but a few things are sure to go on
there.” He meets my gaze. “You look great out of uniform, by the
way.”
Breathe.
I forgot how.
“I see how it is,” Amanda says as she walks up beside me.
“Becca gets changed to go hang with her friend, and you lose all
sense of family loyalty.”
“I sat at a table,” Dereck chuckles as he leans back in his seat
and creates some space between the two of us, “not really a crime.”
“Mm,” Amanda crosses her arms. “And your line of sight dipping
to her legs every few seconds didn’t have anything to do with your
choice of seat? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Dereck opens his mouth to answer.
 “I’m going to go clean a few things up before I go,” I rush out
blazing a trail to the kitchen. My heart thudding loud enough to hide
Dereck’s response from my ever curious ears.
It’s been too long since the last time I let myself get involved
with a guy. My body is reacting from the years of neglect. It, and
Dereck, are confusing lust with like, that’s all. In all reality if he knew
me ⸺the real me⸺ he wouldn’t look my way twice.
Yet you wait for him to ask you out every single day.
And every single day, he doesn’t.
You’re the one who told him you weren’t dating right now.
That’s because I’m not dating right now. The last guy I let myself
get involved with left as soon as he found out the truth, and I refuse
to believe anyone else wouldn’t do the same. The girl they might see
when they look at me ⸺the other Becca⸺ might be appealing,
but she is still me. She still has one too many secrets for a guy like
Dereck to want to get involved with.
“Right,” I mutter as I pull out my phone and check it.
Randy: PaRty at youR place tonight.
Randy: I’ll see u when u get heRe.
Ugh. We literally just had a conversation this morning about
respecting my boundaries a little more. About not throwing parties
at my place without checking with me first, or at the very least,
keeping it small so I’m able to go to bed at a decent hour.
You say that like he cares.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Randy only cares about Randy. But it
doesn’t mean I have to like him or the way he’s forged me into his
life like he does with everyone else.
I send him a text letting him know it’s fine. It’s not, but I say
what he wants to hear anyway, because it’s really all I can do. He
holds all the cards in my craptastic situation.
Besides, I planned to show Stephanie around town and taking
her out to eat anyway. I won’t be home till the street lights are on,
so him and my mother can do as they please.
As I’m wiping down the service station, another text comes in.
Randy: Since you ain’t gonna be heRe tonight, I’ll have
the Real paRty on SatuRday. That way you can hang too.
 Awesome. Now, not only do I have to ask Stephanie to change
our plans around tonight to avoid Randy and my mother, but I will
also have to waste yet another Saturday night hanging out with
them. They’ll invite more people than my trailer can hold, and all of
them will leave a mess that will take me days to clean. Oh, and not
to mention all the illegal…
“Dereck has got it bad for you,” Amanda snickers as she walks
into the kitchen to dump the empty plates into the bin and wash her
hands.
It takes me longer than I care to admit to fight back down the
smile creeping onto my face. Amanda doesn’t miss the slight curl
that managed to slip out, and is grinning much like her brother does,
even with their vastly different skin tones.
It must be a Pemberley thing.
Instead of saying anything to start yet another conversation on
why I won’t give her brother a chance, I sidestep her and make my
way over to the tea dispenser.
“I totally forgot your brother’s tea. Excuse me.”
I fill a glass to the brim with ice before filling it with sweet tea,
just like he likes it, and bring it to him. Dereck sets his phone down
and grabs the glass, thanking me as he does so.
Though it’s hard to concentrate on what he’s saying since his
fingers are covering mine, scratching my skin with his callouses.
An image of his hands running up my legs, the callouses tickling
the sensitive parts of my thighs, flits across my mind.
“What are you thinking about, BG?” Dereck asks, half of his
mouth lifting into a grin.
The nickname makes me blush further. He has called me that
since the first day we’ve met, and no matter how many times I ask,
he refuses to tell me what it stands for. Or give me hints. The only
thing he has done is tell me no over and over again as I made
wrong guess after wrong guess.
“I’m thinking I need to go grab my stuff,” I say while trying not to
notice the melancholy dripping with my every word, nor the
disappointment I feel at having to leave before him. “My shift is
over.”
 Dereck frowns. “I thought you worked all day on Thursdays?”
“Usually, but my friend got an afternoon off and wanted to hang
out.” I’m smiling again when realization hits. “You know my
schedule?”
“I told you I like pestering you.” He smiles from ear to ear.
Colgate eat your heart out.
It’s hard to walk away when he looks at me like that, like I’m
someone who matters to him.
He doesn’t even know you.
No, and that might be the best part of this whole situation.
“I guess I’ll see you next time?” I offer, mentally crossing my
fingers.
His smile falters. “You really got to go?”
I nod.
He rubs the back of his neck, working down to a muscle on his
left shoulder. “Well, before you go, can I see your order pad?”
My face scrunches up, and though I should say no since Charro is
a freak about his order pads, I find myself already sliding it out of
my pocket.
“Why?”
Dereck doesn’t immediately answer me. Instead, he whips out a
pen from his jeans and starts writing on it.
“Charro is going to get mad at me if…”
“Don’t worry,” he says as he looks up at me with a grin, sliding
the pad in my direction, “I told him what I was doing and to add the
cost of the pad to my bill later.”
Curious, I look down at the pad. The date has been filled in, but
where you’re supposed to put the customer’s order is my name with
a line scrawled underneath it, but nothing beneath it to indicate
what it’s meant for.
“And what is it you’re doing?”
Dereck sits back, holding the pen out to me. “I want you to write
one thing you’d put on your bucket list.”
“Are you serious?” I say with a touch of a laugh. “I mean, I get
you enjoy laughing at my love of lists, but this seems silly.”
“Why?”
 “Because…”
My words fall short. This is the problem with opening yourself up
to someone, even to the smallest degree. One question leads to two.
Then three, and before you know it, all the things you knew needed
to be locked away are out in the open. All the ugly things we try to
hide and mask with polite conversation and brief interactions.
“Wow.” Dereck pulls me from my thoughts with one small
chuckling noise from the back of his throat. “BG, you really have a
way with words.”
Rolling my eyes, because of course I can’t really say no to him,
not when he’s grinning at me like that, I come up with the best
answer I can.
“Because I have too much to worry about right now to do
anything that I’d want to put on my bucket list.”
“Hm.” Dereck runs a hand across the stubble peppering his face.
It’s the longest it’s been in weeks and has me wondering if he’s
trying to grow a beard. “Well, would you mind writing just one, to
humor me?”
Don’t do it.
Leaning down, I pinch my mouth together and write the one
thing I’ve been wanting to do since Nathan was born and I realized
how much life I had yet to experience.
“Go past the state line?” Dereck asks as he reads it aloud.
“Becca, you’ve never been out of Tennessee?”
My traitor of a face heats. “Not once,” I admit. “I almost did my
senior year of high school but… things came up.”
Dereck nods, plucking the slip from the pad and tucking it away
in his pocket. He looks at me in earnest and…
Amanda taps my shoulder.
“I think your friend is here.”
Looking out the window, I see Amanda is right. Stephanie’s
hopping out of her car, smoothing the fabric on her yellow sundress,
and walking towards the entrance.
“Oh,” I look back to Dereck, “I guess I got to get going.”
Dereck nods. “You work on Saturday though, right?”
“Right.” I answer on a squeak. “Till four.”
 “I’ll be here,” he says. His eyes on my flushed cheeks. “Maybe we
can finish this conversation?”
I give him a small smile and nod before heading to the back to
clock out. It takes all of two seconds, as does gathering my
backpack.
Stephanie gives me a hug and kiss as soon as I make it out the
door.
“I missed your face,” she says as she squeezes me around my
middle. “Let’s both agree seven days is entirely too long to go
without seeing one another.”
“Agreed,” I chuckle.
She pulls back and places a kiss on my cheek once more,
pointing to the restaurant door. “Charro won’t give me flack if I
sneak in and use the ladies, will he?”
I shake my head.
“Good,” she waves to her car, “I left the keys in it and such if you
don’t want to go with me and chat me up while I pee.”
I giggle and crinkle my nose at her. “Pass, I’ll wait out here
where pee-free conversations take place.”
Stephanie pokes me in the side before opening the door, the
entrance bell jingling, and making her way to the bathroom. She
always double checks her makeup when she goes to the bathroom,
so I may as well…
“Becca, wait.”
I turn to find Dereck walking out of the restaurant, headed my
way.
We’ve never had a conversation without a table between us, let
alone outside the confines of Three Amigos. Granted we are only on
the sidewalk just outside the restaurant doors, but still.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods, looking out at the parking lot. “Your friend went to the
bathroom, so I figured I might have enough time to…” Dereck sucks
in a breath, his hand rubbing at his right side. “Well, the thing is,
today’s got me feeling more ballsy than I’d normally be and…well...I
wanted to…”
 Stephanie walks back out the door. “I totally forgot my makeup
bag and my freaking freckles keep popping through…” She looks
from me to Dereck, a knowing smile filling her face. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, um.” My mouth tries to form the introduction, but with
Dereck smiling at me, and Stephanie smirking because I know she
knows who this is because I’ve talked about him so much, my voice
falls silent.
“Hi, Um.” Stephanie sticks out her hand. “I’m Stephanie. The best
friend.”
Dereck returns the shake of her hand, his eyes never leaving
mine. “It’s actually Dereck, Dereck Pemberley.”
“Oh, I know.” Stephanie shoots me another one of those grins
that tell me she’s going to make trouble. “This one here…”
“I’m sorry, was there something you wanted to ask me?” I lurch
out.
Smooth.
Aren’t I always?
“There was,” he admits, shuffling one of his booted feet. When
he looks down at me, I have to fight the urge to look away, and just
let him witness my face heating.
I knew Dereck was tall, but standing this close to him, I realize
I’ve miscalculated his length. I come to the plains of his chest,
having to crane my neck to look up at him.
It also occurs to me I’ve gotten his eye color wrong. From our
normal distance, I thought his eyes were always a cloudless, sky
blue. I’ve never been close enough to see the lines of color in the
blue, nor the second tone surrounding his pupils. They’re like
different depths of the ocean being seen all at once, lapping into a
sun-hued hazel, his pupil creating an eclipse. It’s mesmerizing and
causing things to stir in my chest that I don’t really want to be
feeling.
“There was, well has been, something I wanted to ask you, and I
keep putting it off, but today has me feeling gutsy.” He slides his
hands in his front pockets as if he doesn’t know what to do with
them. “Would you want to go out sometime?”
 My teeth sink into my inner cheek, trying desperately to avoid
showing how I feel. I’ve been considering this possibility for weeks.
My want to be with him isn’t the problem. Okay, it is the problem.
Dereck doesn’t know me, or how hectic I really am. He’d walk after
the first glimpse into my life.
Well, he’d walk, or Randy and my mother would make him walk.
They would never approve of someone like him.
“Dereck…”
“You know,” Stephanie cuts in, “you’re way more handsome than
Becca led me to believe.” She cuts me a look, all but telling me to
stop denying myself something I’ve been wanting since the first time
he called me by that silly nickname.
“Really?” Dereck’s smile turns full force, spreading out across the
entirety of his face. “So, BG here talks about me to the best friend,
does she?”
“For sure, almost every phone call.”
“And what does she say?”
By some miracle, all conversation gets brought to an immediate
end when a heavy truck comes pulling into the parking lot blaring
some Taylor Swift song.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dereck says. He holds up
a middle finger to the driver as they pull up right in front of us,
parking beside Steph.
Tyler sticks his head out, singing off-key to the top of his lungs.
He pops the driver side door open and makes his way to Dereck with
dance moves that are more for a bedroom than a restaurant parking
lot.
“You feeling twenty-two yet?” He shouts over the music.
Dereck ignores him, looking past Tyler’s shoulder, to the girl
sitting in the passenger seat.
“Court, will you turn that shit off?”
The girl turns it off and climbs across the bucket seat to get out
of the open door. She’s gorgeous in a celebrity kind of way. Like
some tanned secret love child of Sandra Bullock and Megan Fox with
raven hair and sharp features.
 She walks over and, without pause, plants a large kiss to
Dereck’s cheek. She then faces me, eyeing me like she’s seen me
before though I know we haven’t met. She’s the kind of girl you
remember.
“You must be the famous Becca.”
“Famous?” I ask.
Tyler answers, tossing an arm over the girl’s shoulder. “As if you
don’t know the birthday boy is obsessed with you,” he chuckles.
“How are you this fine day, Becca?”
I bite back a sharp laugh.
It seems like I’m not the only one out of uniform today. I’ll admit,
the button down and khakis make for a decent optical illusion. The
outfit makes Tyler look like someone I can be friends with, but his
career makes that impossible. The second he figures out who I am,
who my mother is, or finds out about the crowd that barges into my
home most nights, he’ll ruin the image of normal I have made for
myself here.
“I’ve got nothing to complain about, Officer Howser.”
“You know I feel the same way,” Tyler chuckles. “I get to give
Dereck here hell all day.”
“Just wait till your birthday,” Dereck warns. “I’m going to make
you regret ever playing that stupid ass song.”
“Is it really your birthday?” My face melts as Dereck turns to look
at me, along with everyone else. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Do you know all your customers birthdays?” He counters.
“That’s not the same. You’re different.” My eyes widen with the
slip up. When Dereck’s smile deepens at my omission, I try to fix my
mistake. “I mean, you’re Amanda’s brother. And you…me…we’re…”
“I’m listening,” he says with a grin.
“We’re friends. Right?”
It sounds good. A friendship is safe.
Everyone, me more than anyone, waits for his answer.
His eyes soften to some sort of caring I’m not comfortable with.
“We’re definitely friends.” He takes a hand out of his pocket to rub at
his left shoulder. “And since we’re friends, that should mean we get
to hang out outside of the restaurant, right?”
 No. Absolutely not.
“I’m not dating right now, remember?” And though the words
leave my lips, even I can admit to hearing how half-hearted they
are.
“I remember, but I’m asking anyway, hoping you’ll let me be an
exception.” Another one of those face-filling smiles I loathe and like
all as the same time, fills his face.
“It seems like you already have plans.” I nod towards Officer
Howser and his girlfriend.
“He’s free Saturday,” Tyler interjects.
“I work Saturday.”
“Till four,” Dereck concurs. “But we could hang out after.” He
takes a step closer, close enough for me to smell something mingling
with the autobody scent I’ve come to enjoy. Something sweet, like
the first bite of an apple. “Look, I know you’re not dating, and if you
don’t want to call it a date, that’s fine. With my birthday and
everything, everyone kept asking me what I wanted, and the only
thing I could think of was,” his face fills with that wonderous smile of
his, “spending time with you.”
My face warms in a way I don’t mind as I look at the caring in his
eyes. He means every word of it, and though it should terrify me, all
it seems to be doing is weakening my resolve. He’s the kind of guy
that, if I didn’t have Nathan to fight for or Randy and my mother to
tend with, I’d want to see myself with.
“You’re making it really hard to want to say no,” I mutter.
“Then, don’t say no,” he chuckles. “All I’m asking for is one date.
No strings attached. Just let me feed you and entertain you for one
Saturday afternoon.”
If you do this on Saturday, Randy isn’t going to be happy about
it.
“Just one Saturday?” I ask.
Dereck nods, that Colgate smile making me blush further.
“Is that a yes?”
For the first time, I offer Dereck up an honest smile. “It’s a yes.”
He lets out a breath, his darn face lighting up. Dereck must really
be fooled by the other Becca if he is this excited about going out
with me.
You’re just as excited to be going out with him.
That’s different.
“Do you have a way I can call you? Maybe get your address?”
My address?
He can’t see where you live.
“She’ll find you on Facebook,” Stephanie says for me. She shoots
me a calm gaze, one with a silent “we will talk about this in the car,
and I’m going to convince you not to freak out” look about it.
“Sounds great,” Dereck beams, completely unaware of how much
I am about to disappoint him. “I’ll be on the lookout for you, BG.”
TWO
 DERECK

IT TAKES twenty minutes before Becca sends me a friend

request. I send a message seconds after I hit accept.
Dereck: Becca Lorraine?
Amanda had said her last name was Mills. No wonder I hadn’t
been able to find her on Facebook, and believe me, I’ve been
looking.
My phone dings. It’s a message from Becca.
Becca: Middle name.
Why does she use her middle name for her Facebook? Why not
her last name? It’s yet another mystery, or another wall as I like to
call it, of Becca’s. The girl has a talent for keeping secrets.
Dereck: Well, Becca Lorraine, can I have your number?
I shoot her another message just to make her smile.
Dereck: Don’t worry. I googled it, and it’s okay for friends
to exchange cellphone numbers.
To my surprise, she messages me her number without a fuss.
She even tacks on a smiley face and the one rolling it’s eyes.
“She must have shown him some mercy,” Tyler says. He chuckles
as he dips a chip into some queso.
“Why haven’t you asked her out again?” Courtney asks without
ever looking up from her phone. Typical.
“Because he was too chicken,” Amanda says as she drops off my
refill, and a small, wrapped box. “It’s a gift card for your Xbox.”
 “Thanks for the surprise,” I mutter with a chuckle. My sister is
many things, but patient isn’t one of them. The fact that she didn’t
give me this gift days ago when she bought it, is probably the
biggest surprise of all.
As my sister and Tyler start up a conversation about how her
girlfriend couldn’t make it tonight, my attention goes back to my
phone.
To Becca’s Facebook.
The profile picture alone has me smiling.
Of course, Becca is hiding her smile. And, of course, her smile is
hidden with a book. The only downfall of the picture is it also hides
the bubblegum blush of her cheeks. The main focus is her gorgeous
eyes. The smokey makeup she has on enhancing the thunderstorm
of her irises.
I don’t know many people with grey eyes, or maybe I chose not
to notice, but hers are worth notice. I swear you can watch clouds
roll in them.
I text her.
Dereck: Mind if I steal your profile pic to add with your
number?
She texts me back in seconds.
Becca: Only if I can use yours as well.
She’s going through my page too it seems, and thankfully I have
nothing to be nervous about. It’s the new account. The one I made
a few months ago after I knew my sobriety was going to stick and
changed out Jack Daniels for protein shakes. It’s the profile of the
Dereck she knows, and not the bastard that I was.
Dereck: Sounds good.
Dereck: I’m only missing one thing now.
Becca: What’s that?
Dereck: Your address :)
She shoots me an eye roll emoji.
The entrance bells dings, and with it comes the sound of the
same damn song I’ve heard on repeat all week. They’ve swapped it
with my alarm, blasted it at the Shamrock, and hidden it throughout
my workout playlist. It’s surpassed getting on my nerves.
 Mitchell comes walking up, his phone waving like a lighter at a
rock concert, and plops down in the open space beside Tyler. My
sister walks up and pecks a kiss to his cheek, sliding his soda in front
of him.
“Isn’t this song the best?” Mitchell waves his phone in my face.
“Off.” I groan. “For fuck’s sake, turn it off.”
As he does, my phone fills the silence with another alert.
Becca, my BG, has sent her address.
“Hm.”
“What?” Tyler asks me.
I show him Becca’s text.
“Where is that?”
I’ve lived in Pikeville my whole life, and I’ve never seen a
Smithson’s street, but if there’s one person who would know, it’s
Tyler. He’s the best deputy this town has, not to mention his father is
the sheriff. There isn’t a person or place those two don’t know
about.
For some reason, he frowns.
“What?” I ask.
Tyler pinches his lips together and takes the phone from my
hand. He shows it to Mitchell who shares the same worried look with
Tyler.
“Damn.” Mitchell shakes his head. “Didn’t peg Becca to be the
type.”
“She certainly doesn’t fit the bill,” Tyler says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Amanda places her hand on
her hip, daring them to say something negative about Becca with
nothing more than the sharp point of her brow. She’s not liking their
tone as much as me.
Tyler gives me cop face. His stern jaw and concentrated gaze
stopped fazing me in the fourth grade, so the use of it now is more
annoying than it is intimidating.
“Becca ever mention a Randall Collins to you? Goes by Randy.”
“You think I’m talking to her about other men?”
“I’m being serious.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “I want
you to think on this, Dereck. If she has, maybe it’s best you don’t
get involved with her at all.”
Fuck that.
Becca’s had my eye since she started working here. I come in
every single day she works just to snag a few minutes of her time.
And now, she’s finally letting me step past one of her many walls to
hang out. It’s taken me three months to get here, and I’m not about
to let this opportunity pass me by just because Ty’s worried about
some Randall Collins.
Logan would understand. He’d have already told me I am being a
little bitch about the whole thing. He’d tell me to jump into this feet
first.
“I’m not backing off just because of this Randall Collins.” I say his
name like he’s a douchebag because he probably is. He’d have to be
for Tyler to have a problem with him.
He must sense my resolve on the whole thing and drops the cop
from his face. He sighs and tells me how to get there. It’s essentially
a two minute drive from here. No wonder Becca walks to work.
“Just, if she does associate with Randy, you steer clear of him.
Okay?”
I’m about to ask why when Courtney, who has somehow
managed to snag my phone from Tyler, waves my phone at me.
“He’s not on her friends list,” she says to me, but looks at Tyler.
She gives him that warning look of hers to cut crap out, and for
some reason it works, as it always has, though I have no clue why.
“You like Becca,” I argue. My scowl goes from Tyler to Mitchell.
“You both do.”
They’ve also been pushing me to ask her out for well over a
month. She’s the first girl I’ve been interested in, in years. Now,
because of her address, they change their minds?
“I still like Becca,” Tyler says before taking a sip of his soda.
“She’s a nice girl. Plus, she’s made you less of a miserable ass.”
“No joke,” my sister mutters as she waves a small bye to us and
heads to put Mitchell’s order in.
It’s sort of true.
Becca makes me forget all my baggage. When she’s around my
sole focus is on doing anything I can to make her smile. She makes
it a challenge. Hell, she makes everything a challenge. And, for some
reason, I can’t get enough of it. I want to rise to the occasion. I
want to earn her smile as much as I want to earn her.
But, the second she’s gone, I’m miserable all over again. My guilt
creeps back in. Reminding me I’m a piece of shit no matter how
much I try to make up for all my failures.
For Logan.
Then, there’s the thirst. Most days, my throat is dry. It’s begging
me for a sip, and it’s not like anyone would stop me. I’m not an
alcoholic. I’ve never been to AA. I stopped drinking because it made
me forget and I don’t deserve the luxury of memory loss.
“I can see why Dereck likes her,” Courtney says as she scrolls
across the screen of my phone, looking at a few pictures of Becca.
“She’s hot.”
Tyler chuckles, grabbing the phone and looking at a few photos
before handing it back to me. “She did look completely different
today.”
“What did I miss?” Mitchell looks at all of us.
“She was out of uniform,” I answer. My smile returning.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her out of uniform, and what a
sight it was. No baggy uniform shirt to hide her curves. No bun to
hide that thick expresso hair of hers, or the way it hung in waves
down half her back. And her shorts showed off her thick, luscious
thighs deliciously.
I pull up our conversation.
Dereck: So, FRIEND, when would be a good time for me
to pick you up this Saturday?
Becca: You still want to go out?
Dereck: Do you?
I regret countering her question as soon as I hit send. Becca
seemed on the fence as it was earlier, giving her an option to opt out
might be the opportunity she’s waiting for.
Becca: I do :) But I still don’t want to call it a date
Dereck: How about a non-date date?
Becca: All right. Well, what will we be doing on this non-
date date?
 Dereck: I guess you’ll find out on Saturday
Becca: I guess I will
Dereck: And BG?
Becca: Yes?
Dereck: Did I mention how beautiful you looked today?
She shoots me the eye roll emoji with a smiley face beside it.
“I can’t believe you want to date someone.” Mitchell runs his
hand over his military haircut. A style he keeps because it’s all he
has left of his military career.
“So?”
“So,” Courtney sets down her phone to look at me, “you haven’t
dated anyone since Beth.”
“I’ve been with girls since Beth.”
“You’ve fucked girls since Beth,” Mitchell retorts. “You haven’t
dated anyone.”
That’s…true.
“Like you have any room to judge,” I say back to him.
Mitchell’s the biggest player at the table, and it’s easy to see why
they fall for his shit. It’s his infectious smile, and those damn
muscles. He may have ruined his knees the night of the accident,
but the rest of him works just fine. He’s made it a point since to be
the biggest guy in Pikeville, and, believe me, he’s achieved it.
“Is this your way of admitting you want Becca as more than a
bed buddy?” Tyler asks.
Make no mistake, I want her in my bed. There’s no telling how
many times I’ve imagined myself between her legs, buried inside
her. Her breasts in my mouth. Her ass in my hands. But I also want
more. I want anything Becca will give me, no matter how hard I
have to work for it.
She’s worth it.
“So?”
“So, it’s a big deal.” Courtney pinches my cheek like she’s some
middle-aged relative and not the one girl who grew up centered
around Logan, Mitchell, Tyler, and me. “I’d dare call it healthy.”
I pinch her cheek back.
“You’re a nurse, not a doctor. Don’t be diagnosing people.”
 My phone dings.
Becca: Are you going to be saying things like this on
Saturday?
Dereck: What things?
Becca: That I’m beautiful and yada, yada, yada.
Dereck: I don’t think I’ve ever muttered the word yada in
my life, so I think you’re safe there. It will be a yada free
non-date date.
She sends me another eye roll. It must be her favorite emoji.
“Would you look at his dumb ass smile?” Mitchell laughs. “Do you
know who he reminds me of?”
Tyler and Courtney answer at the same time.
“Logan.”
My smile falls. I look to see if my sister is in earshot.
When we’re at home, or anywhere my family isn’t, I can manage
talking about my brother with them. They understand my guilt
because Mitchell and Tyler were in the car when it happened. They
both bear their own scars from it.
My family though, no matter how much I love them, will never
understand. They call it an accident. They want me to put all the
blame on the other driver, but I know better. Logan’s death is on me.
My guilt constricts its hands. The words barely have the space to
make it out. “How so?”
“You’re looking at Becca the way he looked at Stacy,” Mitchell
says.
The way he’d still be looking at her, if not for me.
“I can’t believe it’s almost been four years.” Tyler says as if the
silence of the table was a cue that we needed a reminder. “I still feel
like I am waiting on him to walk through the door and make fun of
my ass chin.”
Rubbing at the back of my neck, I say, “he’d probably make fun
of your hair first. It’s gelled stiff.”
“He’d also call you a bitch for being such a girl about Becca,”
Mitchell adds. “He’d tell you to grow a pair and get after it. A girl like
her won’t stay single long.”
 “Logan’s birthday is coming up, right?” Courtney asks, unaware
that Mitchell was trying to change the subject. She’d have noticed if
she’d put her phone down for longer than thirty seconds.
“Nine days,” I answer. Same night as the accident, though that
fact seems to slip Courtney’s mind. I’ll also have made it three
hundred and sixty-five days without a drop to drink.
“Damn, he’d have been twenty-six,” Tyler counts on his fingers.
The table goes quiet once more, and when it does, my phone
dings in the silence.
Becca: Dereck?
Dereck: Yeah?
Becca: Happy Birthday :)
Dereck: Thanks BG.
Courtney goes to say something else about my brother, but stops
short when the entrance bell dings, and my parents walk in. Even
she knows not to mention my brother in from of them, and the girl
has barely been around these past few years.
Mom welcomes me with a hug and a ruffle to my hair, all while
Dad tells me how he was able to finish the rest of the docket after I
left. Hearing him talk about the list causes me to think about Becca,
and about the order slip in my pocket.
And, as if she knew she was on my mind, I get another text from
Becca.
Becca: See you Saturday?
Dereck: You most definitely will ;)
THREE
 BECCA

NIGHTTIME IS where I find my freedom. When the sun goes

down, so does the image I’ve created for myself. All my secrets can
walk around the room and hurt as much as I do. It’s just my secrets
and me living without fear of judgement. It’s a freedom that comes
during the small stretch of moonlight hours and I refuse to waste
them.
My stereo plays a mixed cd to tune out all the quiet from outside
my room. Too many things hide in the dark, and the songs are my
comfort blanket to protect me from whatever hides in the silence on
the other side of my bedroom door. My body sways around to the
music as I sing to the poster above my bed. The song switches from
one over to the next.
A roaring voice booms behind me.
“What are you doing?”
Out of habit, I yelp and jump into the bed. My body curls itself
into the corner, pulling the covers over me as I do.
It being this late at night, he can only be here for one of two
things. To send me to bed because he wants Mom tonight. Or, to do
the other thing. And, given the way he’s looking at me, I’m betting
it’s the other thing. The thing I don’t like that makes me sad and
confused and angry all at once.
“I was picking a good song to go to sleep to,” I say.
My voice sounds smaller than it should. It sounds like I am ten
years old all over again.
 The wrecking ball he has for a stomach shadows the wall of my
room as he crosses it and sits on the edge of the bed closest to me.
The at-home tattoos staining his sausage fingers curl around the
comforter and drags the fabric away.
“Liar.” He gestures to where I had been dancing. “I could hear
you stompin’ around in here from the kitchen.” He clicks his tongue
and shakes his head in disapproval. “You’re a shit dancer.”
His hand rests on my knee, inching higher by the second.
Yell. Call for Mom.
Yeah, right. I tried yelling for her last time and all it got me was a
spanking with that big leather belt he has. However, if I can make it
out of the room, maybe I can find her. She won’t let him do anything
if she’s present. She says she can’t handle watching because it
makes her sad too.
“I’m thirsty.” It takes some maneuvering on my part, but I
manage to crawl off the mattress without touching him whatsoever.
My feet even carry me across the room without my shaking slowing
me down. My hand goes for the golden knob.
“Keep that damn door shut,” he snarls. Venom dripping from
every word. “Lock it, and then I want you to turn the music up.”
Change the song too.
Something fast to get this over with.
I do as he says.
From memory, I press the buttons without really seeing them, all
while mentally counting how many songs it should take. He never
wants to stay long, and he leaves immediately after, so I’d guess
only two before this can be done with and I can put it behind me.
The mirror above my dresser shows movement behind me. I look
without really looking. He slides across the mattress and settles
himself against the wall, getting himself comfortable.
“I want to see your best moves, baby girl,” he murmurs as our
eyes lock in the mirror.
Look away. Look anywhere but the mirror.
Keeping my back to him, and my attention off the mirror, I start
dancing. Every time we do this, I always start off wrong. Upset
builds in my belly, and my clothes feel too tight, and my body
movements feel all wrong because it’s like my heart is screaming no
while my head is ordering it to do what it has to, to survive.
“Not like that,” he snips. “Go slower. Roll your hips.”
Movement happens in the mirror. The elastic band of his shorts
slides down his skin as he pulls them past his thighs.
I follow orders and roll my hips like he taught me to. All while
ignoring the sound of him spitting into his hand.
The items scattered across my dresser become my distraction.
They keep me from peeking at the reflection in the mirror, just as
the music helps me focus on something other than the sounds
behind me.
I start listing them off.
One bottle of lotion. One bottle of lavender spray. One bottle of
the perfume he bought me, and I never wear. Two stacks of mixed
cd’s. One stack of blank ones. Two speakers. One stereo. Five bottles
of nail polish. One empty soda can.
“Stop swaying your arms,” he breaths.
It’s not a big deal. Just another order.
Besides, my list isn’t finished.
One cannister of elastic bands. One cannister of bobby pins. One
cannister of mismatched pens. Two cannisters of markers and
colored pencils. Seventeen miscellaneous stickers decorating the top
drawers.
The breathing behind me picks up. Grunts turn into groans. His
wet suctioned grip picks up speed, the sound becoming louder than
the music.
The first time this happened, I remember asking him what he
was doing. After he called me a bad name he usually only calls
Mommy, he barked he was pleasing himself and that I wasn’t
allowed to watch.
The second song hits its first chorus as he huffs louder. When the
chorus starts up again this sound, like a dog getting its tail run over,
comes out of his mouth, and brings my dance to an end.
He’s finished.
The seconds that tick by after are always the worst. Having to
watch him clean up his sticky mess with something of mine, but this
time is different. He doesn’t wipe himself up. He pools it all on my
pillow and slides his shorts back onto his hips. His wrecking ball belly
sways as he swings his body up and off the mattress. He comes up
behind me, that gigantic stomach of his pushing into my back.
“You want to dance for me?” He asks. His cracked lips lean in and
scratch along the shell of my ear. He groans the same guttural sound
he made when his pants were pulled down onto his thighs and
inhales the scent of my hair. “You want to be my fucking slut?”
Don’t answer. Stay quiet and he’ll leave.
These are orders I don’t mind following.
He hurls me onto the mattress like I am nothing more than a rag
doll. “Ignore me all you want but remember I’m the one in charge.
What I tell you to do, you do. And right now, you’ll clean up that
mess on your pillow like the good little slut you are. Got it?”
I stay silent but nod my head in answer.
He slams the door shut on his way out, causing the mirror above
my dresser to rattle. The reflection in the mirror catches my
attention. I’m a fully grown woman again and not the child I was,
though I wear the same baggy shirt and have the same tears
staining my face as I did back then.
The sticky concoction on my pillow waits for me. I search around
the room, trying to find anything to get rid of it and all evidence of
what happened in here, but come up short. There is nothing for me
to use, save the clothes off my own back. Streams of sadness spill
down my face as I tug the extra-large night shirt over my head and
wipe at the stain. The mess spreads and spreads till it covers most
of the shirt and all of the pillow. At some point, some of it manages
to get on my fingers and forearms and I can’t wipe it off.
I can’t wipe it off.
Water. You need water.
And soap. Soap will get it off, along with the salty smell of it.
I pull myself up and walk to the door, my hand freezing on the
knob.
What if he’s still up? What if he knew I would have to use my
shirt and is waiting for me to come walking out in nothing but my
underwear? What if…
 The door swings open due to someone on the other side.
“Becca?”
That’s not him.
Shocked, I stare into two-toned irises.
“Dereck?”
He smiles, but then he looks at my hands. At the pillow. His face
falls, then contorts into a look I know all too well.
“I can explain…” I sob, but he silences me with an upraised hand.
He doesn’t say a word as he shuts the door back.
“Please, just let me…”

My body thuds to the ground as I fall off the couch.

The room around me isn’t the one from my childhood. There’s no
sticker coated dresser or poster-filled walls. There’s no large mirror
that forces you to watch everything that happens, or doorknob with
no lock.
No, before me is the ugly floral wallpaper of my trailer here at
Smithson’s Trailer Park. There’s an oak coffee table, weathered and
chipped from years spent in someone’s storage unit, that I bought at
a garage sale my first week here in town. There’s the square
television stand with the magnetic glass doors that have the prior
owner’s initials carved inside a heart on the side panel. And the
couch I’m leaning against that Stephanie and her parents got me as
a housewarming gift.
It was a nightmare, only a nightmare.
Dereck doesn’t know, and as long as I can keep him at arm’s
length, he never will. I don’t have to worry about him looking at me
in that pitying way I hate. The way people look at me after they’ve
met my mother, or after what happened with Nate. Like I’m some
hapless girl with no hope for a future.
It’s that pitying look that birthed the other Becca, and she would
never let Dereck see this side of her, dowsed in sweat and brimming
in chaos of a past she can’t outrun. She’s what’s going to make my
non-date date tonight run smoothly.
Sitting up, I drag my phone off the table and check the time. It
wasn’t on my agenda to nap, but Randy had people over till almost
three in the morning and I can never sleep well with so many people
in the house. I also don’t sleep well with Randy in the house, but it
is what it is.
That being said, the nap does have me feeling more rested, and
I still have enough time to shower.
But first, I check my phone.
Randy: We good foR tonight?
Dereck: Hello, FRIEND, how are you feeling this fine
evening?
My eyes roll. Even Randy’s texts are annoying. He programmed
his phone to capitalize any and all R’s. He claimed it was his way of
branding, whatever that means. I reply to him and remind him ⸺
again⸺ that I won’t be here tonight. I have plans, though he
doesn’t know what those plans are, and I’m not inclined to share
them.
I text Dereck next, and he must have his phone in hand because
he replies almost immediately.
Becca: As a friend, I should tell you it’s insane to be this
chipper all the time.
Dereck: How can I not be in a great mood?
Dereck: I get to hang out with my new best friend
tonight.
Becca: Tyler is going to be upset with you for saying such
a thing.
Dereck: He doesn’t have to know.
Becca: He does. He needs to defend his title.
Dereck: You don’t want it?
Becca: Depends.
Dereck: On?
Becca: What perks comes with it :)
Sliding my phone back on the coffee table, I gather my comforter
and make my way to my bedroom. I grab my keys from where they
hide behind my fridge and unlock the padlock keeping everyone out
of my bedroom. I toss the comforter on the bed and make my way
to the closet.
What does one wear on a non-date date? Nothing to revealing,
right?
Liar. You want him to look at you like he did the other day.
Sighing at my own honesty, I grab my nicest and tightest pair of
shorts, along with my lucky bra and panty set. For a top, I think my
charcoal tank top hangs low, but in a way I can get away with for
our non-date date.
I return the lock and close my room off from everyone, tucking
the keys into my pile of clothes, before going to check my phone.
Randy: Who aRe these plans with again?
None of his business, that’s who.
You can’t talk to him like that.
No, but I also don’t have to answer him either. Not when I can be
texting the guy I actually want to talk to.
Dereck: BG, you can have whatever you want.
Becca: What if I want you to make out with Tyler?
Dereck: How in the hell would me kissing him be a perk?
Becca: If you have to ask, you don’t get my humor.
The clock says I have half an hour to get ready. Shower time it
is. Stepping into the bathroom, I wince at the powder blue bathtub
with the matching toilet. It gives me a headache if I stare at them
for too long, as do the seashell walls.
The shower does me good. The hot water scalds my skin while
the steam hides away the ugliness of my living situation. It also
cleanses me of the crawling feeling I carry with me after every
nightmare.
Hopping out of the shower, I quickly part my hair and braid it into
two Dutch pigtails before applying some mascara and lip gloss. It’s
enough to show I cared about my appearance, but not so much that
he thinks I went out of my way.
By the time I am done, Dereck’s texted me again.
Dereck: Friend?
 Becca: Are you ever going to get tired of hearing yourself
say that?
Dereck: Have you met me?
Becca: Point well made.
When I click my screen to black, I catch sight of the smile
spreading across my face. This is so dumb. There’s no reason for me
to be getting this giddy over a guy. Dereck’s just a friend.
A friend you fantasize about getting naked with.
Maybe.
Okay, yes.
But it doesn’t matter. I don’t know much about Dereck’s dating
history before me, but I’d bet good money that it’s better than mine.
He’s probably gotten naked with plenty of women.
And I’m not even sure if I’m good at sex.
Alex and I never talked about what we did together. We would
kiss, strip, and he’d take care of himself while I laid there and did as
he instructed. It was simple. Safe.
It’s what I was capable of, all things considered.
The next time I open myself up for a guy like that, I want it to be
more. I want it to be what I read about. I want…an orgasm.
Ugh, my sex starts to clench, as do my thighs. They need to get
a grip. We’ve went this long; we can wait longer. It’s not like tonight
is going to head in that direction anyway.
I’m lacing up my sneakers when my phone starts to ring. I make
the mistake of answering without looking to see who it is.
“Hello?”
“Why are you being so secretive about who you are going out
with?” Randy demands. “You going on a date or something?”
The lie comes too easy. “No, I’ve told you, I’m not dating right
now.”
“Yeah, well girls say shit like that all the time to make men want
them more,” he argues. As he has every time we’ve had this
conversation. “So, you’re telling me it’s not a guy?”
Lie.
Would that I could, but with his cousin living in the lot in front of
mine, he’ll know exactly who’s picking me up before Dereck and I
manage to make it out of Smithson’s.
“It’s a guy.” I distract myself by double-checking that my
bedroom door is securely locked. “But, he’s just a friend. Nothing
more.”
Randy says nothing, and I can tell his silence is his way of saying
I still have some explaining to do if I don’t want to get on his bad
side.
“He’s my coworkers brother, and it was his birthday the other
day, and I totally spaced on getting him something so,” a lie I can
get away with forms on my tongue, “he’s picking me up so we can
meet up with his sister and some of their friends to celebrate.”
“So, he’s just picking you up? You two aren’t going to be
spending anytime alone?” His tone is peaked, but in a satisfied way.
If I close my eyes, I could see him rubbing the patch of fluff
surrounding his mouth that he calls a goatee.
“Right,” I say.
Randy accepts the answer and goes over the details for the party
he’s planned tonight, trying once again to sway me to stay by telling
me he found a karaoke machine. When I stick with my original
plans, he droles out how there’ll be plenty of hang out time for him
and me once I get back since they are planning for an all-nighter,
again. He drones on and on and on about his day till my ear feels
ready to fall off.
“Also, I think I got a job for Brett,” he says. It’s the first thing I
actually find worth paying attention to.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, now I know you don’t want him doing anything candy
related, but I’m a few guys down and I could use someone to do
some door to door selling here next weekend.”
It’s a good thing we’re having this conversation over the phone.
There’s no way I’d be able to stop my eyes from rolling at his
suggestion.
“Brett can’t push pills, Randy. He’s just like Mom, he’ll spend one
minute too long alone with them, and then he’ll mess up his clean
streak.” My fingertips tug at the frayed edges of my shorts. “Plus,
what if Nathan finds a bag? He’ll think they’re actual candy or
something.”
“He won’t,” Randy argues. “I was going to tell Brett to give you
the kid till he was done peddling.”
“Oh.” The sick part of me, the part I hide away from anyone
who’s not from this side of town, almost relishes in the idea of
getting Nathan for so long. But the larger part of me knows the
truth. “As much as I want to say yes, Brett’s a much better father if
he’s clean. I don’t want my son in a household with an active
addict.”
“You sure?” If I didn’t know any better ⸺and I do⸺ I’d dare
say Randy is worried about me. “When’s the last time you got to see
little man?”
It’s been about two weeks, but we’ve talked on the phone four
times since then, and one of them was through a video call. Besides,
he has his dentist appointment coming up soon.
“I’ll see him soon.” And against everything my head and heart
are telling me to do, I force out, “thank you for thinking about me.”
I don’t mean a word of it, but Randy wants to hear it,
nonetheless.
“I’m always thinking about you, baby girl. Always.”
Ugh, lucky me.
“Alright,” Randy says, “I’ll talk to you tonight. Maybe you’ll get
lucky, and I’ll save you a dance or two.”
I’d rather dance on broken glass.
“Sounds good.”
He hangs up and I haven’t made it two steps before my phone is
chirping.
Dereck: See you in ten?
Becca: I’m all yours.
Setting my phone down, and refusing to watch it for anymore
incoming texts, I straighten up as best I can. Randy and my mother
are sure to destroy it here within the next few hours, but I try to
take pride in this place. It may be four floral walls, stale cigarette air,
and a matted carpet no amount of scrubbing can really clean, but it’s
also the first place I’ve ever truly called my own.
 A knock sounds at my door. Ignoring the boulder in my belly, I
make my way over, slide the chain lock out, and swing it open.
Except it’s not Dereck.
“Why don’t you take for-fucking-ever to open the door? It ain’t
like I got nothing better to do than wait around for you.”
“Sorry.” I sigh, my shoulders dropping. “What are you doing here,
Mom? I thought you were spending the day with Randy.”
She shoulders past me, ignoring the question, and heads straight
for the kitchen with me following after her. She’s wearing the same
thing she had on yesterday, the only difference being that she’s
taken out the braids I’d put in her hair. The grease-coated chestnut
locks have a light curl to them as an after effect. It would be prettier
if she’d take care of herself better.
I can only do so much.
“You need food or something?” I ask, leaning against the fridge
opposite her to keep her from taking a peek inside and finding the
cash I have stowed away in an old frozen berry bag.
“So, you can pump my stomach with all that healthy shit you
force down your throat?” She laughs as if she’s funny. “Nah, just
thought we could do a repeat of last night.” She pulls out the
charger from her decaying black leather purse, plugging in her
phone. “It was a good time.”
Maybe for the people who didn’t have to clean up after.
“No can do,” I say. “I’ve got company coming over.”
It’s a lie, and one she’ll soon figure out the second she speaks to
Randy, but who knows, maybe it will send her packing and I can get
her to spend one night giving her body a good night’s rest.
“Stephanie? Again?” Mom turns to look at me, waving the notion
away. “Have her reschedule.”
“It’s someone else, and I’m not rescheduling last minute for
people to destroy my place two nights in a row.”
“Don’t look like you had any trouble cleaning it up,” she says,
turning her focus onto the stack of mail laying at the end of the
counter. “Randy would never leave a mess for you.”
I ignore what she’s getting at.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
pareilles à des hymnes. Enfin, c’est Paul qui a donné à l’art moderne
la semence d’immortalité :
[19] Actes XXVI , 24.
[20] I Cor. III , 10.
[21] Éphés. V , 19.

« Nous voyons toutes choses dans un miroir, en énigme [22] . »

[22] I Cor. XIII , 12.

Le symbolisme des cathédrales est là, Dante, Beethoven aussi.

Nulle épigraphe n’interpréterait mieux ce à quoi nous-mêmes, de
notre temps, nous aspirons.

*
* *

Car nous ne venons pas, en étudiant saint Paul, ranimer un

fantôme, le prêcheur d’une religion morte. Son histoire nous est
esprit et vie ; nous y cherchons la forme de l’avenir que nous
voulons préparer.
Les nations retombent, ou peu s’en faut, vers une période
semblable aux temps des Apôtres.
En face de l’Église, des sadducéens, des épicuriens qui ne
veulent pas de la vie future ; des pharisiens, satisfaits d’eux-mêmes,
n’apercevant rien au delà des convenances, des gestes et des
formules ; des stoïciens qui attendent de leur seule force la paix de
l’intelligence dans la soumission au destin ; des théosophes et des
gnostiques qui prétendent se faire, par la magie et le rêve, les
confidents de l’invisible ; des millénaristes qui réclament sur terre,
dans l’anarchie ou le communisme, un paradis ; et les innombrables
païens qui ont à peine changé aux idoles leur nom.
Si Paul revenait, il croiserait parmi les villes plus de courtisanes
qu’à Corinthe ; il coaliserait contre lui, plus qu’à Éphèse, tous les
marchands d’amulettes, il se buterait davantage contre la haine des
puissants, l’imbécillité des foules. On calomnierait son œuvre, on la
déformerait, il retrouverait les embuscades des faux frères, les
schismes, et, plus sournoises, les hérésies. Ce qui lui serait amer
surtout, il passerait peut-être au milieu du bruit sans que sa parole
fût entendue.
Et cependant, il continuerait.
Qu’était l’Église au moment où il partit avec Barnabé pour
Chypre ? Une petite secte ardente disséminée hors de quelques
synagogues. Aujourd’hui, la formidable Église compte trois cent
millions de croyants ; seule société spirituelle qui ait franchi vingt
siècles sans varier en ses principes ni dans sa fin.
Paul donnerait son sang pour elle en 1925 comme en l’an 67, et
il prêcherait encore les mêmes vérités : vivre selon l’esprit, non selon
la chair, dans le Christ, au point que ce soit Lui qui vive en nous,
attendre, dans la patience et l’amour, l’heure de la justice, la défaite
du mal, la glorieuse Parousie.
Les âmes, pour leur paix, n’ont besoin de rien d’autre ; le mot
qu’il apporterait à l’humanité défaillante serait celui qu’il dédiait aux
Éphésiens :
« Éveille-toi, toi qui dors ; lève-toi d’entre les morts, et le Christ
luira sur toi [23] . »
[23] V , 14.

*
* *

Le présent livre — est-il nécessaire de l’énoncer ? — ne sera

point surtout descriptif ; je ne m’attacherai guère non plus aux faits
pour les faits. C’est l’être intime de Paul que je voudrais atteindre. Je
tente d’en esquisser un portrait synthétique ; ambition peut-être
imprudente ; mais vous l’excuserez, ô grand Apôtre, sachant qu’elle
m’est venue d’un haut désir d’anticiper sur l’éternité, en vous
connaissant à fond. Des montagnes d’ouvrages se sont entassées
autour de vous. Il en est de faux et de perfides qu’on croirait bâtis
avec les pierres dont vous fûtes jadis lapidé. Il en est de très bons,
mais qui ne s’adressent qu’aux savants. Le mien veut, dans une
recherche sévère du vrai, vous rendre accessible même aux
simples. Si d’autres ont amolli, paganisé votre image, je viens
restituer à vos traits leur hébraïque et sainte rudesse.
J’ai poursuivi la présence de saint Paul à travers les contrées
que sa mémoire maintient fameuses. Des hauteurs de Salonique j’ai
regardé l’Olympe, cerné de nuages, tel qu’il le vit en arrivant par la
via Egnatia. Dans les gorges du Taurus, au delà des portes
ciliciennes, j’ai bu l’eau d’un torrent où il a dû se désaltérer. Trop
d’invasions ont roulé sur la splendide Asie ; l’Islam a enseveli les
villes antiques comme sous des couches de sable et d’immondices.
Les paysages néanmoins subsistent ; ils m’ont quelquefois révélé
des faits inattendus.
De Tarse, tandis que je montais vers les rampes du Taurus, on
m’indiqua, au flanc d’une butte isolée, pyramidale, une grotte où la
tradition maintient que Paul aurait vécu en anachorète. Or, les Actes
disent qu’après les premières luttes de l’Apôtre, à Jérusalem, contre
les Juifs hellénistes, ceux-ci ayant essayé de l’assassiner, « les
frères le conduisirent à Césarée et l’embarquèrent pour Tarse ». Le
séjour de trois ans qu’il y fit semble avoir été une halte de vie cachée
et contemplative. « Barnabé, reprend plus loin le narrateur, se rendit
à Tarse afin d’y chercher [24] Saul, et, l’ayant trouvé, il le mena à
Antioche ». Cet épisode a souvent embarrassé les exégètes, quand
ils veulent supposer que Saul, à Tarse, avait exercé un apostolat
public. On ne comprend plus alors pourquoi Barnabé le cherche et le
découvre enfin. Tout est simple, au contraire, si on admet là une
phase de silence et d’anéantissement extérieur, la retraite d’un
solitaire dans le trou d’un rocher. Peu importe l’endroit précis de la
grotte, authentique ou non ; c’est l’idée de la grotte, vestige d’un
souvenir très ancien, qui nous met sur la voie d’une explication
conforme au texte.
[24] XI , 25. Le mot grec employé marque des
recherches qui se prolongent, comme s’il s’agissait d’un
homme disparu.
 A Tarse même, une similitude m’a frappé. La plaine de Cilicie,
avec le Cydnus flexueux, fermée, à l’ouest, par les cimes grandioses
du Taurus, et descendant jusqu’à la mer, s’étale comme la plaine
d’Ostie où tourne le vieux Tibre, laissant derrière lui les crêtes du
pays sabin. L’horizon qu’eut Paul devant ses yeux, lorsqu’il marcha
au martyre, évoquait le site de son enfance. L’un et l’autre lui
offraient une figure exacte de son âme : d’un côté, sévèrement
définis ; de l’autre, amples et sans limites.
Mais on peut dire de Paul presque partout où il passa : « Son lieu
ne le connaît plus. » Dans Tarse, la porte de Saint-Paul, le puits de
Saint-Paul n’ont rien de commun avec l’Apôtre. A Damas, il faudrait
une singulière imagination pour demander l’ombre de son ombre à la
maison dite d’Ananie, à la rue droite qui n’est plus droite, aux deux
pans de muraille rejoints par une galerie, d’où l’on prétend que les
chrétiens le descendirent dans une corbeille. La route même de
l’apparition est controversée ; l’opinion commune met le miracle tout
près de la ville ; une tradition autre le recule à plus de trois lieues.
A Éphèse, dans le théâtre, je suis monté sur la scène d’où le
grammateus harangua le peuple en émeute ; mais Paul n’a laissé
aucun signe de son passage sur les dalles des rues qu’il foula sans
doute, qui semblaient, sous le soleil de midi, toutes neuves, d’une
blancheur intacte. Éphèse se souvient de Jean plus que de Paul, et
j’ai senti dans la lumière austèrement suave de ses paysages la
même onction que dans le rythme évangélique des versets.
A Jérusalem, quand on gagne la place de la coupole du
Rocher [25] , en regardant à sa gauche la caserne turque bâtie sur
l’emplacement de la forteresse Antonia, il est facile de se
représenter le tumulte juif, Paul entraîné hors du Temple, et l’officier
romain avec les soldats accourant hors des portiques pour le
dégager. Seulement, ce n’est qu’un décor lointain ; et il n’enrichit
d’aucune précision le discours que tint Paul à la populace juive.
[25] Vulgairement appelée « mosquée d’Omar ».
 Dans les ruines de l’ancienne Corinthe, les Américains ont
exhumé une longue rue qui descendait au port de Lesché ; à
présent, elle se perd entre des files de cyprès et des vignes touffues.
Des arcades la bordaient et de petites échoppes semblables aux
boutiques de tous les bazars d’Orient. Comme nous arrivions près
d’une stèle romaine, le gardien du lieu nous indiqua une pierre plate
posée à terre, et, avec une emphase un peu ridicule :
— C’est ici, déclara-t-il, que l’apôtre Paul parlait.
— Qu’en savez-vous ? lui demandai-je.
— Le directeur des fouilles l’a dit.
Je n’insistai point et ne voulus troubler par aucune objection cet
argument de foi. Après tout, il est bien certain que Paul a suivi cette
voie où s’engorgeaient d’énormes foules ; peut-être Aquilas et Prisca
avaient-ils près de là leur magasin ; et ils y vendaient les tissus pour
les tentes que Paul fabriquait.
L’Acrocorinthe dressée devant nous comme le mur de fond d’un
théâtre géant, c’est elle qui portait sur son faîte la chapelle
d’Aphrodite avec son collège de mille servantes [26] . Plus près, en
haut des marches usées d’un grand escalier, six colonnes pataudes
soutiennent encore des morceaux d’entablement. Il y avait là un
temple de Neptune ou d’Apollon. Le soleil, émergeant d’un nuage
bleu noir, embrase les fûts grisâtres, seuls débris d’un luxe lourd de
parvenus. A notre droite, une forte échine rocheuse, la Parachôra,
surplombe les eaux verdissantes du golfe. Plus haut qu’elle et très
loin, nous discernons le massif du Parnasse, un tumulte de pics
déchiquetés, entre-croisés, furieux comme une bacchanale. A
gauche, une autre ligne de montagnes leur donne la réplique,
s’abaissant vers la mer d’un mouvement plus calme. La mer est
devant nous, au bas des cyprès et des vignes jaunissantes ; elle est
derrière aussi, appel d’immensité que resserrent les môles
montagneux. Son haleine fumante enveloppe l’isthme et les
hauteurs. Paul était peu sensible aux paysages ; comme celui-ci
pourtant est paulinien !
 [26] Sur l’Acrocorinthe, voir Louis Bertrand, la Grèce
du soleil et des paysages, p. 156-173.

Et ces colonnes transfigurées par un soleil d’orage nous

représentent la ville perdue d’orgueil, de richesse et de luxure, la
ville qu’il purifia, mais qu’il n’empêcha point de mourir.
A Corinthe, pour la première fois, j’ai donc ressaisi quelque peu
la présence de l’Apôtre. Athènes seulement, au pied de l’Acropole,
sur la butte de l’Aréopage, me la rendit frémissante et pleine, comme
si j’avais entendu sa voix retentir dans l’air nourricier.
En montant vers la colline auguste, c’était lui que je cherchais.
J’avais déjà gravi, près d’un bosquet de pins, cette bosse de rochers
d’où l’on domine l’Athènes moderne et la muraille qui enclôt le flanc
rugueux de la citadelle. Devant l’Acropole, j’avais songé aux
prédestinations de l’Hellade et à leurs harmonies avec la révélation.
Mais ce fut un dimanche soir, au crépuscule, qu’en ce site immortel
je relus le discours de Paul aux Athéniens.
S’il le prononça ici même — et je me plaisais à l’admettre — il
voyait, en se tournant à droite, le temple de Niké perché au bord du
plateau, les Propylées robustes, les cariatides de l’Erechtheion et le
dur Parthénon stabilisant l’espace comme la pensée maîtrise
l’indompté des éléments. La surface de l’Acropole, en ce temps-là,
était encombrée de statues et d’édicules. A présent, le ciel passe au
travers des colonnes ; les statues ont croulé, mais les colonnes
restent debout, droites, comme en prière. Sur un morceau de la
grande frise, une femme agenouillée lève les mains vers un dieu qui
ne peut rien pour elle ; n’était-ce pas le Dieu inconnu qu’elle
implorait ?
A l’instant, ce soir-là, où nous atteignîmes l’escalier de
l’Aréopage, le soleil, comme à Corinthe, se délivra des nuées ; un
rayon surprit la masse rousse et brûlée des architectures et des
rocs. Il pénétra sous l’ombre du Parthénon ; un cheval cabré, sur la
frise, se ranima ; les corniches ébréchées, les blocs disjoints au
sommet des murs, tout devint d’or flambant ; la mer lointaine, elle
aussi, parut ardente ; les promontoires sombres et les îles s’effilaient
plus tranchants, plus impérieux.
L’apothéose d’une minute s’évanouit ; mais l’Acropole sembla
grandir ; le temple de Niké n’était plus celui de la victoire sans ailes ;
il se fit léger, comme soulevé sur l’étendue. Autour de nous, les rocs
pâles défaillaient ; la longue croupe de l’Hymette, l’éperon du Pnyx
étaient noirs ; à la cime du Lycabette pointu, au-dessus des bois, la
blancheur d’un oratoire demeurait limpide ; une lampe y brilla, tandis
qu’en bas la ville immense allumait ses feux ; et des cloches de joie,
soudain, agitèrent sur un branle grave des battements rapides,
comme un hymne délirant.
Cette liesse des cloches, dans un soir dominical, c’était le
triomphe de Paul, l’éternité du Christ dominant les dieux morts
d’Athènes. J’ouvris le petit livre des Actes ; je commençai à voix
haute :
« Hommes athéniens, je vois qu’à tous égards vous êtes des
gens très dévots. Car, en passant, j’ai vu les images de votre culte,
et j’ai trouvé un autel où il y avait cette inscription : Au Dieu inconnu.
Ce que vous honorez sans le connaître, moi, je vous
l’annonce [27] … »
[27] XVII , 22 et 35.

Parole qui me donna le frisson d’avoir entendu Paul la clamer lui-

même. Car elle fut certainement cueillie de ses lèvres. Quelle vue
splendide sur l’attente confuse de la Vérité chez les païens ! Mais
l’annonciateur poursuivait :
« Dieu qui a fait le monde et tout ce qui est dans le monde, alors
qu’il est le maître du ciel et de la terre, n’habite pas dans des
temples faits par la main des hommes… Et, puisque nous sommes
de la race de Dieu, nous ne devons pas croire que rien de divin soit
semblable à l’or, à l’argent, ou à la pierre, image due à l’art et à la
méditation de l’homme. »
En articulant ces sentences, il étendait sans doute son bras vers
le Parthénon ; son tranquille anathème écrasait les idoles
tremblantes :
Mourez donc, les faux dieux, pour que Dieu vive en nous.
Athéné, tu ne vois pas la rouille sur ton casque ? L’éclair de ta pique
va s’éteindre ; elle s’éteindra la lampe de ton sanctuaire qui servait
de phare aux marins. De ta statue il ne restera pas assez d’ivoire
pour y tailler un dé à coudre. Mais la sagesse dont tu faisais un
mensonge, voici qu’elle illuminera les vivants et les morts. Le Juge
est proche ; en lui, toute chair connaîtra l’inconnaissable ; par Lui, ce
qui est sur terre et ce qui est au ciel, tout est réconcilié dans la paix
du sang offert sur la Croix.
Pendant que la nuit glissait, comme un linceul soyeux, sur
l’Acropole et sur nous, je me répétais avec douceur l’ineffable
verset :
« In ipso vivimus, movemur et sumus. » En lui-même, dans la
vertu invisible de l’Esprit, nous avons l’être, le mouvement, la vie
divine. Et cela, c’est Paul qui l’a dit, en ce lieu où nous respirons, où
nous glorifions Dieu, nous qui sommes des vivants.
 I
SAUL LE PERSÉCUTEUR

LE MARTYRE D’ÉTIENNE

Violente du début à la fin, l’histoire de saint Paul s’ouvre par une

scène terrible.
C’était au moment où les Douze, voyant l’urgence de diviser le
ministère temporel du spirituel, avaient décidé, « pour le service des
tables [28] », l’élection des Sept.
[28] Actes VI , 1.

Les disciples se souvenaient du conseil : « Ne vous inquiétez ni

d’avoir de quoi manger, ni d’avoir de quoi vous vêtir [29] . » Afin de le
suivre comme un précepte, ils avaient mis en commun ce qu’ils
possédaient. Les riches avaient offert leurs revenus, vendu leurs
terres, leurs maisons, ou donné leur logis à des frères pauvres. De
la sorte, il n’y avait plus que des pauvres parmi les fidèles. Leur
nombre croissait au delà des ressources ; suffire à tous les besoins
devenait compliqué.
[29] Math. VI , 25.

Le dénûment, pour chacun, pouvait être une béatitude ; pour la

communauté, même à Jérusalem où « cinq petits oiseaux coûtaient
deux as [30] » et une fiasque d’huile un as [31] , il engendrait un
malaise. La volonté de perfection n’était pas égale chez tous.
Certains se crurent lésés dans le partage quotidien. Des veuves,
peut-être chargées d’enfants, réclamaient plus que d’autres ; autour
d’elles on excitait leurs doléances.
[30] Luc XII , 6. L’as valait 3 cent. 39.
[31] V. Schwalm, Vie privée du peuple juif, p. 340.

Elles appartenaient à des familles de Juifs hellénistes, de ceux

qui, ayant séjourné en Cilicie, en Cyrénaïque, en Égypte, à Rome,
parlaient la langue internationale d’alors, le grec commun, la koïné.
Ces hellénistes, nous les retrouverons en face de Paul,
remuants, grondeurs, fanatiques. Comme ils étaient revenus de
l’étranger dans la ville sainte, ils faisaient sonner haut leur zèle
religieux, et formaient, sans doute malgré eux, bande à part vis-à-vis
des Palestiniens ; ceux-ci les regardaient d’assez haut comme le fils
de la parabole, demeuré chez son père, dévisage son cadet, quand
il rentre au logis. Le nom même d’hellénistes qu’ils leur infligeaient
accusait une suspicion, comme si un long contact avec les païens et
l’usage de leur langue les entachaient d’impureté.
Hommes d’affaires, les hellénistes appliquaient sur leur judaïsme
un vernis grec, afin de mieux lui préparer un royaume universel ; la
culture de l’intelligence leur était un moyen de conquête, comme la
ruse et l’argent. Eux seuls se targuaient de gagner des prosélytes.
C’étaient des nationalistes calculateurs ; et ils devaient abominer
une doctrine qui, visant au règne de l’Esprit, excluait leurs grossiers
moyens.
Même convertis, — car la foi nouvelle toucha leur élite, — ils
maintenaient leur humeur exigeante, toujours en défense et
méfiants. Au sujet des veuves de leur groupe ils murmurèrent,
« grognèrent » avec ensemble. Les Douze, voulant la paix dans
l’unité et comprenant qu’il fallait mieux organiser l’économie de la vie
commune, prirent occasion de cet incident pour l’institution des
Sept [32] .
[32] On a longuement épilogué sur la raison de ce
nombre sept. Marquait-il la subordination à l’égard des
Douze ? Correspondait-il aux sept pains multipliés par
 Jésus, ou aux sept anges debout devant Dieu (Tob. XII ,
15) ? Les repas en commun se prenaient-ils en sept
endroits de la ville ? Un diacre présidait-il à chacun ?
Toutes ces explications sont plausibles, non décisives. Il
est probable que les Sept, tous hellénistes, complétaient
le ministère, devenu insuffisant, d’autres diacres, élus
déjà, et palestiniens.

L’assemblée des fidèles semble leur avoir proposé les noms à

choisir. Les sept élus portaient des noms grecs ; tous Juifs de
naissance, sauf Nicolas, prosélyte d’Antioche. Les Douze, après
avoir prié, leur imposèrent les mains, les investissant de pouvoirs
liturgiques. Car les diacres ne devront pas seulement veiller à
distribuer le pain ; ils participeront au mystère eucharistique ; ils
baptiseront ; ils enseigneront.
Préposé à des œuvres de charité, « comblé de grâce et de
puissance », Étienne révéla des dons suréminents. Il opérait « au
milieu du peuple des miracles et des signes extraordinaires ». Il
prêchait aussi, catéchisait les indigents qu’il soulageait, les infirmes
qu’il guérissait.
On a conjecturé qu’il osa provoquer dans leurs synagogues les
Juifs hellénistes ; d’où les fureurs liguées contre lui. S’arrogea-t-il
cette mission ? Il est plus simple d’admettre qu’irrités des prodiges et
des conversions qu’il multipliait, les Juifs déléguèrent quelques
orateurs de synagogues, agressifs et retors, qui lui portèrent un défi
public, espérant l’humilier, abattre son prestige.
Certains d’entre ses contradicteurs fréquentaient la synagogue
des Ciliciens. Saul de Tarse devait en être. Né vers l’an 10 ou 12, il
avait en 36 vingt-trois ou vingt-cinq ans. Les pharisiens attaquèrent
sans doute Étienne sur la doctrine du Christ. Le débat tourna
simplement à leur confusion ; ils ne purent tenir contre l’Esprit de
sagesse qui parlait en lui.
Alors ils ourdirent, pour le perdre, des calomnies décisives.
Étienne avait blasphémé contre Moïse, contre le Temple et la Loi.
Contre le Temple ! Nul grief ne pouvait être plus redoutable.
C’était le crime qu’on avait reproché à Jésus.
 Le Temple signifiait le relèvement et la stabilité d’Israël. Tout
l’orgueil et toute l’opulence du peuple de Iahvé s’y concentraient.
Lieu saint unique, nombril du monde, la gloire de Dieu l’habitait. De
très loin il éblouissait, tel qu’une montagne de marbre, mais avec les
pointes dorées de sa toiture, les colonnes de ses portiques, ses neuf
portes plaquées d’or et d’argent, et la dixième en bronze de
Corinthe, si lourde qu’au dire de Josèphe [33] il fallait, pour la fermer,
les bras de vingt hommes. Du matin au soir, les victimes y
montaient, le sang des boucs et des taureaux éclaboussait les
cornes de l’autel, la graisse des holocaustes fumait sur les brasiers.
Les appels des trompettes et des cors, les clameurs des psaumes
exaltaient au-dessus de la ville des rythmes de piété guerrière.
Enfin, le trésor, le Corban détenait des richesses formidables et
mystérieuses. On n’avait pas oublié la poutre d’or cachée dans une
solive de bois, et qui pesait, disait-on, trois cents mines [34] . Sans le
Temple, sans les pèlerinages et les sacrifices, que seraient devenus
les commerçants de Jérusalem, les éleveurs palestiniens ?
[33] Bellum judaïcum, II , 17.
[34] Josèphe, Antiquités juives, XIV, XII . Les chiffres
donnés par Josèphe doivent souvent être accueillis avec
une sévère méfiance.

Le dénigrer, parler de sa destruction possible, cette impiété

devait paraître aux Juifs monstrueuse et suprême, d’autant plus
exaspérante qu’au fond ils pressentaient les catastrophes prédites,
suspendues sur lui et sur eux.
Les ennemis d’Étienne déchaînèrent contre sa personne, peut-
être au Temple même, un tumulte de la populace. Rien n’était plus
aisé dans une ville pleine de mendiants, de pèlerins excitables, où
des centaines de synagogues pouvaient se communiquer le mot
d’ordre d’une conjuration. Il brava la foule, rendant témoignage au
Juste, au Fils de l’homme assassiné par les mêmes Israélites qui
voulaient sa perte.
Ceux-ci prirent à témoin de son langage impie des anciens du
peuple et des scribes, des pharisiens ; ils l’appréhendèrent, le
jetèrent en prison. L’accusé comparut ensuite devant le grand
sanhédrin.
S’il fallait en croire le Talmud [35] , « quarante ans avant la
destruction du Temple, le droit de prononcer les sentences capitales
fut ôté à Israël ». En fait, chaque fois qu’il sentait se relâcher la
pression romaine — or la mise en jugement d’Étienne dut concorder
avec la disgrâce et le départ de Pilate — le sanhédrin tendait à
reprendre ses pouvoirs juridiques. Les Romains lui reconnaissaient
d’ailleurs le droit de juger les crimes religieux. Seulement, les
sentences avaient besoin d’être validées par le procurateur ;
limitation humiliante que les pharisiens ne désespéraient pas
d’annuler.
[35] Trad. Schwab, t. XI, Traité sanhédrin, p. 238.
Juster (op. cit., t. II, p. 134) estime ce texte peu probant,
et c’est aussi l’avis du P. Lagrange (Saint Étienne et son
sanctuaire à Jérusalem, p. 29).

Dans l’affaire d’Étienne ils agiront comme envers Jésus avec une
combinaison de violence et d’hypocrisie. Pour brusquer le
dénouement, une émeute interviendra. L’accusé sera poussé au lieu
du supplice avant d’être régulièrement condamné. Quelque chose
des formes légales persistera dans son exécution. Cependant elle
les démentira ; sa mort fera songer à celle d’Akhan, voleur du
manteau rouge et des deux cents sicles d’argent qui devaient être
offerts au Seigneur, lapidé par tout le peuple, dans la vallée
d’Achor [36] .
[36] Josué VII , 18-26.

Le sanhédrin siégeait dans l’enclos du Temple. La salle était

disposée en demi-cercle ; ainsi les soixante-dix juges pouvaient se
voir, se surveiller, échanger des clins d’yeux [37] . A droite et à
gauche deux scribes inscrivaient les opinions énoncées et leurs
motifs. Au centre trônait le grand prêtre, reconnaissable, peut-on
croire, à la lame d’or qui ceignait son front, aux gemmes du rational
qu’il portait dans les circonstances solennelles [38] .
 [37] C’est la raison donnée dans le Talmud (loc. cit., p.
269).
[38] Sur le costume que portait le grand prêtre,
comme chef du peuple juif, nous n’avons aucune donnée
ferme.

Devant les juges trois séries de disciples s’asseyaient, chacune

de vingt-trois membres, ayant leur place marquée. C’est parmi eux
que nous imaginons Saul, et les regards homicides qu’il envoyait sur
Étienne.
L’accusé se dressa, magnifique de pureté candide. Quand les
témoins déclarèrent :
« Nous l’avons entendu dire : Ce Jésus le Nazaréen détruira ce
lieu-ci et changera les coutumes que nous transmit Moïse », il n’eut
pas l’air d’avoir écouté, mais parut en extase ; la flamme des yeux
furibonds dardés contre son visage sembla s’y changer en un éclat
angélique. Il se présentait, comme jadis les prophètes devant les
rois, accusateur et juge de ses juges ; lui et Jacques le Mineur, plus
tard précipité du Temple et lapidé, devaient être les derniers nabis.
Le grand prêtre l’interrogea comme s’il l’invitait à se défendre,
mais pensant bien l’accabler sous l’évidence de son crime :
« Tout cela est-il vrai ? »
Étienne répondit par un discours sublime dont Paul comprit, dans
la suite, l’enseignement. Au lieu de se disculper, il représenta le
passé d’Israël depuis les promesses reçues par Abraham. Il essaya
de faire entendre qu’elles dépassaient l’existence du Temple, sinon
le culte mosaïque.
Israël, durant des siècles, avait adoré son Dieu, nomade comme
lui, ici ou là ; et le tabernacle n’était qu’une tente dressée pour un
soir, la tente de bergers en marche. Le buisson en feu d’où était
sortie, devant Moïse, la voix du Seigneur, avait été vraiment « la
terre sainte ». Puis les Hébreux avaient, dans le désert, servi des
idoles, disant à Aaron : « Fais-nous des dieux qui marchent devant
nous. » Ils s’étaient prosternés sous « l’armée des cieux ». Salomon
avait construit une demeure au Dieu de Jacob ; mais « le Très-Haut
n’habite pas dans des maisons construites de main d’homme… Le
prophète a dit : « Le ciel m’est un trône, et la terre un escabeau pour
mes pieds ; quelle maison me bâtirez-vous ?… »
Dans cette histoire d’un peuple où les grands faits se découpent
comme des morceaux d’horizon, la nuit, sous les éclairs d’un orage
prochain, Étienne insérait des allusions crucifiantes au Juste
méconnu et vendu, renié par ses frères, dont Joseph et Moïse
étaient les figures trop intelligibles ; il ne dissimulait pas qu’une foi
toute matérielle au Temple équivalait à une idolâtrie.
L’auditoire suivait son raisonnement assez pour en avoir horreur.
Tous ces vieux pharisiens, les bras croisés dans leurs longues
manches, commençaient à s’agiter ; les jeunes trépignaient,
murmuraient. Au début, on avait écouté ; les Juifs respectaient, chez
l’accusé, le droit de défense ; ils se plaisaient inlassablement aux
récits où les aventures de leurs pères, commentées dans un sens
prophétique, leur promettaient un retour des gloires, une délivrance
pareille à celles d’autrefois. Étienne parlait, de même que son maître
Jésus, non en scribe ni en casuiste péroreur, mais « comme ayant
une puissance ». A mesure que son exégèse devenait plus
manifestement hostile, l’indignation grondait. Loin de la prévenir, il la
défia soudain par une apostrophe qu’on peut croire transcrite jusqu’à
nous, telle — ou à peu près — qu’il la proféra :
« Gens au cou raide, incirconcis de cœurs et d’oreilles, c’est
toujours vous qui résistez à l’Esprit saint : comme furent vos pères,
ainsi vous êtes. Quel est celui des prophètes que n’ont pas
persécuté vos pères ? Ils ont tué ceux qui prophétisaient sur la
venue du Juste envers qui vous êtes maintenant devenus traîtres et
assassins, vous qui avez reçu la Loi en préceptes d’anges et ne
l’avez pas gardée. »
Les auditeurs frémirent ; chaque mot leur « sciait le cœur en
deux » ; ils « grinçaient des dents ». Quand on a vu, en Orient, des
foules exaspérées, il est facile de concevoir, dans ces formidables
minutes, l’aspect du sanhédrin : l’ondulation des manteaux blancs ;
les roulements d’yeux féroces dont les feux se croisaient ; les
mâchoires tendues, les nez en pince de crabe et les doigts crochus
convergeant sur l’accusé comme pour le mettre en pièces. Les
sifflements de rage, les voix rauques se heurtaient.
Rien ne troublait Étienne ; percevait-il le souffle de mort qui
grondait autour de sa tête ? Un ravissement l’enlevait ivre des joies
promises, ivre du Paradis ; il se tenait immobile comme une colonne
de lumière ; mais, tout d’un coup, éperdu d’apporter aux hommes la
présence de son Dieu, il cria, le front renversé, déployant ses bras
vers des clartés invisibles :
« Voici ! Je contemple les cieux ouverts et le Fils de l’homme
debout à la droite de Dieu. »
Blasphème ! Il attestait comme une évidence la gloire du
Nazaréen, sa résurrection.
Les Juifs n’y tirent plus ; ils se bouchèrent les oreilles, et toute la
salle se leva d’un seul élan frénétique, pour entraîner l’impie hors du
sanhédrin. Massé vers les portes, le peuple l’accueillit avec des
aboiements d’extermination. Pourtant il ne fut pas lapidé à l’endroit
même.
Le Lévitique ordonnait : « Fais sortir le blasphémateur du
camp [39] . » On emmena Étienne hors de la ville, et, probablement,
sur une hauteur, au nord de Jérusalem.
[39] XXIV , 14.

D’après la Loi [40] , « à la distance d’environ dix coudées du lieu

du supplice », on déshabillait le condamné, on lui disait de se
confesser ; « car tous les suppliciés se confessent, et celui qui se
confesse aura sa part dans le monde futur »… Le lieu de la
lapidation devait avoir une élévation double de la hauteur d’un
homme. Les témoins imposaient leurs mains au condamné comme à
une victime expiatoire. Un des deux le précipitait ensuite, de façon
qu’il tombât au-dessous, et sur le dos, non sur le ventre. « S’il était
mort, on ne lui faisait plus rien ; sinon, l’autre témoin lui jetait une
pierre sur le cœur ; s’il n’était pas mort, tous les assistants
l’achevaient avec des pierres. »
 [40] Talmud, Traité sanhédrin, p. 277-280.

Dans le supplice d’Étienne, il n’apparaît pas que les Juifs aient

ainsi procédé. Les deux témoins, pour être plus à l’aise, déposèrent
leurs manteaux « aux pieds d’un jeune homme qui se nommait
Saul ». Mais nous apercevons, aussitôt après, le martyr assailli par
les pierres, debout jusqu’à l’instant où il s’agenouille et succombe.
Son exécution fut donc tout ensemble rituelle et tumultuaire. Son
martyre imita, en abrégé, la Passion du Christ. En méditant son
agonie, il s’était disposé à mériter la couronne, comme son nom l’y
prédestinait. Le disciple eut infiniment moins à souffrir que le Maître.
Il se contenta d’être, à son tour, parfait dans l’immolation.
« Seigneur Jésus, disait-il, recevez mon esprit. » Et, s’étant mis à
genoux, il supplia d’une voix puissante : « Seigneur, ne leur imputez
pas ce péché. »
La doctrine du pardon était au fond même de la Rédemption :
quand l’Homme-Dieu a remis par son sang l’offense irrémissible,
comment l’homme oserait-il appeler sur ses ennemis une
vengeance ? Mais Étienne ne se borna pas à pardonner ; il s’offrait
en hostie pour ses bourreaux, pour quelqu’un surtout qu’il
connaissait peut-être, Saul dont sa mort préparait la mission.
On voudrait suivre Saul durant les phases du jugement et du
supplice. Son courroux contre Étienne partait d’un amour indigné : le
blasphémateur devait mourir ; la Loi et les choses saintes
réclamaient justice.
Reçut-il de sa dialectique un sourd ébranlement ? Nous n’en
pouvons rien savoir. L’extase d’Étienne, son cri : « Je vois les cieux
ouverts » lui revinrent plus d’une fois, comme le témoignage
scandaleux d’une illusion qu’il ne voulait pas admettre. Mais, quand
un fait contredit une croyance vivace et plus forte que tout, il reste
inexistant, du moins pour les régions conscientes de la vie interne.
Pendant qu’autour du martyr la canaille vociférait, et que les
exécuteurs, faisant cercle, ramassaient pour l’abattre les cailloux de
la route, Saul regardait, pâle et palpitant d’une fureur contenue. Il ne
lança lui-même aucune pierre ; assister ceux qui frappent lui suffisait.
Il considérait avec étonnement cet homme si calme qui ne cherchait
pas à se défendre ; les projectiles déchiraient son front, ses mains
étendues, la nudité sanglante de sa poitrine et de ses reins meurtris ;
il ne gémissait pas, il tressaillait à peine sous les coups ; et la
vigueur de sa voix demeurait intacte, lorsqu’il jeta vers Dieu sa prière
de victime heureuse. Atteint, soit au cœur, soit à la tête, du choc
mortel, il s’étendit sur la terre, dans son sang, comme sur un lit doux
pour le sommeil [41] . Quel endurcissement intrépide ! dut songer
Saul. Il faudra, contre l’erreur nazaréenne, une sévérité sans merci.
Et, si quelque pitié le sollicitait, il la réprima comme une faiblesse. Il
rentra, plus ferme encore dans sa haine.
[41] Il s’endormit, disent les Actes.

*
* *

SAUL ET L’ÉGLISE

Le grand prêtre Caïphe, les Anciens du peuple jugeaient comme

lui. Une violence en réclame d’autres. Les disciples d’Étienne ou de
pieux prosélytes ensevelirent [42] le Saint avec une solennité
d’affliction qui le glorifiait. Pour venir à bout de l’hérésie tenace, une
répression méthodique fut décidée. Elle était possible au début du
principat de Caligula, dans la brève période où la Judée respira plus
libre, entre l’éloignement d’un procurateur odieux — sa disgrâce
obtenue semblait une victoire sur Rome — et l’arrivée du
successeur.
[42] Le corps du lapidé devait être, d’après la Loi,
pendu jusqu’au soir à une potence. Les Actes ne disent
pas que cet opprobre fut infligé au cadavre d’Étienne.
 La persécution visa par système les Nazaréens d’origine
helléniste ; ceux-là, comme Étienne, négligeaient hardiment le
Temple, sinon la Loi. Les Douze, nés Palestiniens, plus exacts aux
observances mosaïques, restèrent à Jérusalem ; et rien ne donne à
entendre qu’ils furent, pour lors, inquiétés. Les autres se
dispersèrent, emportant avec eux l’Évangile qui, par là, s’étendit au
loin.
Faut-il dater de ce moment ou de plus tôt les chrétientés de la
Samarie, de la Syrie, d’Alexandrie ? Il y en avait une à Antioche, une
à Damas, puisque Saul alla bientôt la pourchasser.
Comment Saul, après avoir joué dans le martyre d’Étienne le rôle
d’un comparse, simple gardien du vestiaire, reparaît-il, peu de temps
après, commissaire du sanhédrin, investi d’un pouvoir de haute
police qu’il exerce à la façon d’un enragé ? Son zèle, sa véhémence
d’exécution l’avaient, sans doute, mis en valeur. Ses qualités de chef
s’imposèrent. Dans les crises terroristes, ce sont toujours les jeunes
qui prennent la tête du mouvement.
Sur la férocité de sa campagne le narrateur des Actes s’est plu à
insister ; par trois fois [43] il la certifie. Saul entrait dans les maisons
suspectes, en arrachait les hommes et les femmes, les entassait
dans les geôles, les faisait flageller, les contraignait à renier leur foi,
ou les ramenait à Jérusalem et, devant les tribunaux, intervenait
pour qu’ils fussent menés au supplice.
[43] VIII , 3 ; XXII , 4-5 ; XXVI , 9-11.

Quatre fois aussi [44] dans ses Épîtres, Paul évoque son passé
de persécuteur ; s’il n’y revient guère plus souvent, c’est que toutes
les églises en savaient les moindres détails.
[44] Galates I , 13-14 ; I Cor. XV , 9 ; Philippiens III , 6 ;
Ire à Timothée I , 13.

« Vous avez ouï dire, écrivait-il aux Galates, ma façon d’être dans
le judaïsme : que je persécutais à outrance l’Église de Dieu, et que
je la dévastais ; et j’allais dans mon zèle pour le judaïsme plus loin