2
Molly
“I need a cause.” The words reverberated off the gymnasium walls as if I’d spoken them through a megaphone.
My brother wiped the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt—why are guys so gross?—and twisted to find me blazing a trail on the polished floor in my taupe booties. Though Miles worked to school his surprise at seeing me here, of all places, I could have spotted the humored twitch of his upper lip from across the Pacific Ocean. He was a terrible actor—truly the worst. He once got cut from our fifth-grade Christmas pageant only three days before curtain call because he couldn’t stop his nervous chuckle every time Mary’s donkey lumbered on stage, heaving a pillow-stuffed virgin mother. His debut theater career ended abruptly after a fed-up Mrs. Martin told him to bite the inside of his cheeks because there was no such thing as a laughing wise man. To which Miles had smartly replied, “There was no such thing as a wise man at the nativity scene, either. They came later.”
“Morning, sis. It’s nice to see you, too. My trip to Guatemala was great, by the way. Thanks for asking.” He chucked the ball at the wall, retrieving it on the bounce back. “You come to play doubles with me?” At this he cracked a full smile. Prior to Miles taking up wall ball on Tuesday mornings at his church gymnasium, I truly believed wall ball was a pretend sport, like the kind playground teachers made up for the athletically challenged to pass recess. Like hopscotch. Or tetherball. But nope, for some unknown reason, my twenty-seven-year-old brother was all about it.
I enunciated my words a second time. “I. Need. A. Cause.”
He bounced the red rubber ball twice at his feet. “I heard you the first time, and yet I still have no clue what you’re talking about.”
After lying awake half the night, strategizing and typing out nonsensical notes for my assistant Val to find in her inbox this morning, I’d convinced myself that Miles was my best hope for finding the right connection to a cause that would offer both experience—for the Netflix producers—and minimal commitment in light of my sixty-hour workweek. The thing was, Miles couldn’t know about the possibility of a makeover show. Or even the possibility of an audition for one. Because Miles was . . . well, Miles was a saint among humans. If I was gonna ask for help in his area of expertise, then he’d expect my motives to be pure. Which they were. Sort of.
As he looked to me for an explanation, I worked to recall the heartfelt speech I’d written in my head on the way over regarding the importance of serving others. I hoped my stall seemed genuine enough, and not like I was trying to call up empathy from the depths of my being. “It’s come to my attention that I have the platform I have for a reason. Not just to grow a profitable business in the beauty industry but also for a greater vision and purpose.”
His expression bordered on intrigue and suspicion, a look I’d seen a few dozen times in our lives, and one I could mimic perfectly. Though we were fraternal twins by birth, our faces were identically expressive. Growing up, I’d envied Miles’s unique eye color—a bottomless amber with ribbons of ivy swirling throughout his iris. But his hair color he could keep. It registered three shades darker than my chemically engineered blond highlights, placing him firmly in the same brownish-blond category I was happy to escape by my eighteenth birthday. “What kind of greater vision?”
“To better serve my local community.” I paused the adequate amount of time for self-reflection. “Specifically, I’m feeling drawn to the area of hurting, underprivileged young adults.” I stopped myself from adding that if those young adults could live within a fifteen-mile driving radius and were available on a time frame of once a week, that would be best.
He blinked, as if not quite sure how to interpret this strange turn of events during his sacred wall ball hour. “And what brought about this realization, do you think? Because I specifically remember calling you two weekends ago when I was down three volunteers at our annual job fair for adults in transition. That would have been a great opportunity for you to serve your local community.”
“I was in the middle of shooting a two-part series on flat irons, Miles. Val was waiting on me to send her the raw footage so she could edit.”
He blinked. “Right.”
“Just because I work from home doesn’t mean I don’t have daily responsibilities to tend to or people waiting on me. Plus, isn’t that one of the charities I donate to each month?”
He sighed. “Yes, it is. But as I’ve said before, we don’t call them charities anymore. This isn’t 1945. We call them ministries.”
“Sure, but still—it’s not like you can say I don’t help you or your ministries.”
“You’re right, Molly,” he said in that slow, pastorly way of his. “Your generosity has been a huge blessing to the church over the last couple years. Thank you.”
I had the distinct feeling that he had more to say on that topic. “But?”
“I’m still trying to understand where this is coming from—especially in regards to serving underprivileged young adults, as you called them.”
“Those are formative years, Miles. I’ve always cared for that age group.”
“Oh? Like when you wrote that check for the van repairs last spring break so that I didn’t have to cancel the youth group’s mission trip to Mexico . . .” He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, exactly. See?” Huge points to me. I’d forgotten all about that van repair bill. “I’ve been concerned about the safety and welfare of our teenagers for a long time.”
“Molly, you wouldn’t hand me the check until I promised never to ask you to chaperone for such a trip. You said your lifetime quota for stinky armpits and bad road trip
