I sat in the empty chair next to him. I was surprised Dad wasn't reading the story of Christ's birth the way he usually did this close to Christmas. Instead of mangers, and shepherds, and angels, he was reading the different parables of Christ. I found my own eyes getting a bit heavy, too, until I heard the outside doors to the parish creak open. Footsteps came down the hall, and I regretted not making a couple of extra mugs of hot chocolate.

"Let us move on to the prodigal son," my father said.

I flipped the pages of my Bible to Luke 15, and right on cue, the door opened and Daniel slipped inside the classroom. He breathed on his hands as he looked around for a place to sit, and noticed me watching him. I looked down at the open Bible in my lap.

Dad's voice went on without pausing. He read the parable of the father who had two sons. One son was good and steady and hardworking; the other took his father's money and squandered it on whores and riotous living. The latter son's life sank so low he decided to return to his father to beg for help. My dad read on about how the father rejoiced when his prodigal son returned, fed and clothed him, and called their friends together for a celebration. But the good son, who had stayed faithful to his father's teachings, was angry and jealous of his brother, and refused to welcome him home.

When Dad finished the last verse, he asked, "Why was it so hard for the good son to forgive his brother?"

His change of tone startled the audience. A few people looked around, probably wondering if the question was supposed to be rhetorical.

"Mrs. Ludwig," Dad said to the elderly woman in the front row, "when your son stole and wrecked your car last winter, why was it so hard to forgive him?" Mrs. Ludwig colored slightly. "Because he didn't deserve it. He didn't even say he was sorry. But the Bible"--she tapped her worn, monogrammed copy--"says that we must forgive."

"Exactly," Dad said. "We don't forgive people because they deserve it. We forgive them because they

need it--because we need it. I'm sure you felt much better after forgiving your son." Mrs. Ludwig pursed her lips and nodded.

My neck felt hot. I knew without looking, Daniel was staring at me.

"But why is it so hard to forgive?" Mrs. Connors asked.

Don blinked and snorted, snoring.

"Pride," Dad said. "This person has already wronged you in some way, and now you are the one who has to swallow your pride, give something up, in order to forgive him. In fact, the scriptures say that if you remain in your pride and choose not to forgive someone, then you are the one committing the greater sin. The good son in this story is actually in much graver danger than his prodigal brother."

"So should the prodigal be loved no matter what?" Daniel asked from his corner. I shot up out of my chair. This was all just too much.

Dad gave me a quizzical glance. "Brownies," I said.

There was a collective "mmmmmm" from the audience as I left the room. Dad's lesson was probably cut short when I came back with refreshments, but I didn't really care. I wanted to go home. I cleaned up the napkins and gathered the empty mugs while the others milled around, talking about jolly things like presents and carols. Once the room was tidied enough, I went to my father and asked if I could take off early.

"I don't feel well," I said. "I'd like to get to bed."

"Finals burnout?" Dad chuckled. "You deserve a good night's rest." He leaned over and traced the cross on my forehead. "I promised to drive a couple of the ladies back to Oak Park, so I can't send you with the car. I don't want you walking home alone, though." Dad looked to the back of the room. "Daniel," he called.

"No, Dad. That's stupid." I felt a surge of anger against my father. The cross he traced on my forehead seemed to burn my skin. Why was he making this so hard on me? "It's not even that far."

"You are not walking alone in the dark." Dad turned to Daniel as he came up to us. "Will you be so kind as to walk my daughter home?"

"Yes, Pastor."

It wasn't worth protesting, so I let Daniel walk me into the hall. As the classroom door clicked shut, I stepped away from his side. "That's far enough. I can make it the rest of the way myself."

"We need to talk," Daniel said.

"I can't talk to you anymore. Don't you know that?"

"Why?" he asked. "Give me one good reason, and I'll leave you alone."

"One good reason?!" Was this the same person who'd told me he was a werewolf? Was this the same person who admitted doing those terrible things to my brother?

"Try Jude for one." I threw my arms up and stomped toward the coat rack near the exit.

"Jude's not here," he said, and came after me.

"Stop, Daniel. Just stop." I looked down at my coat buttons. Why wouldn't they go into the right holes? "I can't talk to you, or be with you, or help you, because you scare me. Is that reason enough?"

"Grace?" He reached for one of my shaking hands.

I shoved them into my pockets. "Please let me go."

"Not until I tell you ... You have to know." He wrapped both hands around his pendant, and said like it would solve every problem in the world, "I love you, Grace." I stumbled back. His words felt like a knife in my heart. They were everything I desired to hear, and everything I hoped he'd never say. And they couldn't solve a thing. I stepped away farther; my back butted against the large oak doors of the parish. "Don't say that. You can't." Daniel dropped his hands. "You really are afraid of me."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

He bowed his head. "Gracie, let me fix what I've done. That's all I want. All I care about is you." I wanted to be able to forgive Daniel. I really did. But even with everything Dad said, I didn't know how. It's not like I could just flip a switch and forget everything he'd done to my brother. It's not like I could change the fact that loving me meant that something inside of him wanted to kill me. But it's not like I could just stop loving him, either--couldn't stop the aching to kiss him, to be with him.

How could I go on seeing him like this every day? I knew I'd give in eventually--I'd lose everything.

I pushed on the door latch. "If you cared, then you'd leave."