Page 35 of Betsy
Then what do you call the electric charge that thinks your veins are power lines whenever he’s near?
Fine. There was attraction. People were attracted to each other all the time. My younger self thought Zac Efron was hot. Did Zac Efron and I ever get together? No. No we did not. Ipso facto, alakazam, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, Asher and I would also never be together. I mentally wiped my hands of the matter. Case closed. Door shut. End of story.
“So, you’re from Argentina, huh?”
He kept spinning this conversational dime on its axis. Lucky for me, I was the merry-go-round queen of Rancho Buena Vista Elementary School. I was able to go round and round for hours without ever getting dizzy. “Yep.”
My monosyllabic response didn’t deter him. “The pictures of Patagonia I’ve seen are breathtaking. Was it hard adjusting when you moved to the States?”
“Considering I was two, I’d say no.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense. “What about for your parents?”
I shrugged. Honestly, for some reason I hadn’t really considered how immigrating had affected my parents outside what I could see with my own two eyes. I’d never asked them, and they’d never said. “There’s a small community of Argentines they’ve become a part of. My aunt and uncle and their kids currently live with us too, so they’re enjoying having family close again.”
He looked at me in that deep way of his. Like a surgeon with a scalpel, cutting away all the hogwash to get to the heart of the matter.
“Your sister. Your cousin. I can see that family means a lot to you.”
“Family is everything,” I answered without hesitating.
A sadness dimmed his features. “I envy you the closeness you have with your family.”
I shouldn’t ask him. Shouldn’t encourage this familiarity he was trying to establish between us.
Opposite poles, remember?
But even though I knew I should keep my distance, I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “You’re not close to your family?”
He snorted in derision. “My mother’s idea of closeness is a formal invitation to dine together once a month.”
“Did you literally just say dine?”
His face was turned away from me, but from his profile I could see the corner of his mouth pull up in a smirk. “Cynthia North does not eat. She dines.”
“Fancy schmancy.”
This time he tossed a look my way. “You have no idea.”
“She must be proud of you, though. Fame and fortune right at your fingertips.” Yep. I heard the slight sneer in my voice.
He scoffed, ignoring my tone. “Music is not a ‘real job’”—his fingers curled into air quotes—“according to her. Also, you realize all of these concerts are taking place inside churches, don’t you? The NFL isn’t going to be calling us anytime soon to entertain at the halftime show during the next Super Bowl. I don’t know how much fame and fortune you think music ministry brings.”
Huh. I hadn’t considered that. Although, there were plenty of megachurches with televised pastors who were raking in the dough. But Asher was right. In regard to money, there was a lot more to be had in the mainstream market. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t good enough to make it amongst big names either. He could easily be topping charts and having his songs play on repeat on more than one radio station if he so chose.
“Why do you sing Christian music?”
He turned his head so he could face me straight on. “What do you mean?”
“You could sing anything. Have your name up in lights. Sell out concerts in stadiums. Have more money than you know what to do with. Why aren’t you?”
He took his time answering, as if he were choosing his words carefully. “The music isn’t mine,” he said simply. Quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t come from me. I’m just an instrument for God to use, kind of like my guitar. He gives me the songs, and in return I sing them for His glory.”
I pursed my lips, trying to sift what he was saying and weigh it for any truth. Was he feeding me what he thought I wanted to hear, or did he truly believe everything he said?
