Haverford was a good school—not the best, but certainly the best he could afford, and close enough to commute from the boardinghouse. It was also massive, sporting a population that could rival most towns’, and a campus so large that two months in, he was still discovering buildings.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t seen the chapel sooner.

Or maybe, until now, the trees had simply hidden it, red and gold leaves obscuring the classic lines, the simple spire, the sloping white roof.

Eli’s steps slowed at the sight of it. But he didn’t turn around. The pull was subtle, but persistent, and he let himself be drawn to the steps.

He hadn’t set foot inside a church in years, not since God became more . . . personal.

Now, as he stepped through the doors, the first thing he saw was the stained glass. Red and blue and green light dancing on the floor. And there, before the window, a stone cross. His palms began to tingle. Eli closed his eyes, willing back the memory of a deep voice, the whistle of the leather belt.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said an airy voice.

Eli blinked, and glanced sideways, and saw a girl. Slim and pretty, with wide brown eyes and honey blond hair.

“I’ve never been religious,” continued the girl, “but I love the look of the buildings. You?”

“I’m not big on the buildings,” he said with a wry smile, “but I’ve always been religious.”

She pouted, shook her head. “Oh no, it will never work between us.”

The false sadness broke back into a smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, you just looked sad.”

“Did I?” Eli must have slipped, let the truth show through. But in an instant, he’d recovered, and turned the full force of his attention, and his practiced charm, on the girl. “Were you studying me instead of the building?”

Light danced in the girl’s eyes. “I’m more than capable of admiring both.” She held out her hand. “I’m Charlotte.”

He smiled. “Eli.” The bells rang once around them, and Eli held out his hand. “Have you had lunch?”

* * *

MAGGIE had appeared in the doorway of Eli’s room the week before, a basket of laundry on her hip. “It’s Friday night, Eliot.”

“And?”

“And you’re sitting in here doing calculus.”

“Biology,” he’d corrected.

Maggie had shaken her head. “All this work and no fun, for a boy your age, it’s not normal.”

That word. Normal. The center line of his calibration.

Eli had looked up from his homework. “What should I be doing?”

he asked, one eyebrow raised to hide the earnestness of the question.

“Go to parties!” said Maggie. “Drink cheap beer! Make bad choices!

Date pretty girls!”

He leaned back in his chair. “Do pretty girls count as bad choices, or are those two separate things?”