Patrick was the exact kind of boy your father had warned you to stay away from. Actually, he was the boy your father had specifically warned you to stay away from. Stay away from the Zweig boy; he’s no good for a girl like you, he’d said. And you’d really obeyed, for a few years, at least.

You would’ve stayed your daughter’s perfect, innocent daughter had Patrick not opened an entire new world for you. He’d given you your first cigarette, held your first beer bottle up to your lips, was the first boy to drag his fingers along your inner thigh, or anywhere for that matter. He had created you, in a way.

You should really end it before word gets back to your dad, before someone spots The Zweig boy sneaking into the preacher’s daughter’s bedroom at odd hours of the night. But you’re simply too into it at this point to ever think of letting go. Patrick was like a savior to you, something worth worshipping.

His fingers move along your arm slowly as you rest against his chest.

“Not going to pray tonight?” he asks, teasing you. You had a habit of praying up to the cross that hung above your bed after you two did what you did, and Patrick would watch, finding it adorable and also a bit fucking weird.